The Regulus Era
by Genosaurus
Summary: While Sirius was the black sheep in a Black family, Regulus was the anomaly; the first of those - like Draco, like Severus - of the Slytherins who saw the truth. This is Regulus' story, from his childhood to his death, the tale of the unsung hero. This, is the Regulus Era.
1. Prologue: The Fire in His Soul

**Prologue: The Fire in his Soul**

"You're not supposed to be here."

The words echo across the room like dream whispers; the tiny, fleeting impressions of what could have been, what should have been. Grey eyes, intense and smoky on one side, hard and anguished on the other. Their haughty brows are matched for pride and their conviction perfectly paired. He is fourteen and cold, heart beating fast, waiting and hoping. His brother, sixteen; impassioned and hot-headed, raring to dare the world. Or perhaps only _their_ world. Youth is not necessarily less wise, he reminds himself. His older brother is not right. He is wrong, and he must understand!

He knows he shouldn't have come. Mother will punish him terribly, but he cannot allow his brother to leave in exile without being given the chance for redemption. If only he'd see, then they could go back into the drawing room, and Mother would not sneer and rage and they would all be happy together again-

But he is fourteen and he has seen this end coming for a long time, even as early as his brother's first year of school. That was the pivotal point and nothing beyond it could ever be what he'd dreamed. So he consoles himself with offering his brother a last chance to accept his ancestry and what he should know is right. Because they _are_ right; Mother _knows_ these things. She had shown him so, but if only his brother had listened, everything would have been fine!

He doesn't know how to say it. He doesn't know how to undo years of conflict and disagreement.

"Sirius, I He can't do it, he can't say it. "I wish you wouldn't," he whispers at last.

His brother laughs harshly, his grey eyes glowing with the smoke from the fire in his soul.

"No, Regs," he breathes, face alight with joyous determination. "If I stayed, you wouldn't be my brother any more."

He is frightened; he doesn't understand. Maybe he change Sirius' mind, even now.

"Please, Sirius, please, just stay, we can work it out. I know you can't see it, but we can work it out.

"No, Regs," he says again. "We never could, and we never will. As long as you stay here, as long as you listen to them and believe them, we never will. At least this way, I know you trust me to be _me._" He is standing tall, back straighter than Regs has ever seen it, the hastily packed back already cocked at his shoulder. The Floo is within arm's reach.

"Sirius! Wait! I don't _believe_ them!" For a moment, while he pauses to take a breath he can see the hope bloom on his brother's face. "I don't have to, because I know they're right! Please, won't you just listen? I can"

But a shuttered look has fallen on Sirius' face; something blank has come between their eyes, so similar. For a moment he fears Sirius will leave instantly, but the soft look Sirius knows only for his little brother brings a bitter smile to his face and he reaches an arm around to pull Regs close.

"Don't ever stop trying, little prince," he whispers to Regs. "Don't just listen, _think_! The world has many more colours than you've ever seen, if you'd only look beyond the scope of what you've been told." He pulls away and reaches for the mantle. Regs opens his mouth one last time, but knows somewhere inside that nothing can be said now without turning Sirius away forever. And he lets him go.

He is empty and cold and shivering. Mother mustn't know. She mustn't know he spoke to Sirius one last time when she'd forbidden it expressly, specifically. No one was to ever associate with him again. He thinks he can hold out until after supper, when the elves come out with Father's cigar and whiskey, and maybe something a little stronger than tea for Mother. He will be allowed to leave for his room then, for solitude and tears when he can't keep them at bay any longer. Until then: he hauls his cool and haughty Black family trademark expression into place. It settles heavily over the aristocratic features. Maybe the slight twist to his lips will be taken as contempt instead of anguish, the wrinkled brow for disgust instead of regret. He can do no more.

Chin angled upwards he strides to the drawing room, preparing to put on the show of horror of the scandal for his parents and aunt and uncle and cousins. And he is ready but for one thing. He's forgotten the tapestry.

For one horrible, horrible moment the mask falls as he stands in the doorway and he is openly shocked before he yanks it back into place. Of course, he thinks, the blood traitor son no, _heir_ of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black can never be allowed to remain in pride of place in the family tree. So he watches as Mother, enraged, jabs her wand at the cloth until the hex has obliterated every stitch of her traitorous son's existence. Then she turns to him and he almost wishes she would open her arms to him, but Mother was never very affectionate and she is more likely to duel now, than to embrace. She is speaking to him, of honour and justice and righteousness and he listens and agrees because she is right, of course. But he only wishes that somehow Sirius had seen the truth because the real truth hurts too much. But he shoulders it and lets his eyes alight at the thought of the glorious truth and magic and purity. There is satisfaction on his mother's face.

All evening he sits with his mother, the good son, and agrees with her every word. And the aching loss he feels for his brother, for the stupid faces he would pull in private to Regs while their parents ate, and the amusing stories of the pranks of his dorms mates, as horrifying and unrefined as they are; these residual feelings he takes and binds away until supper is over and the alcohol emerges. He takes his leave and retreats to isolation. But the tears he has saved for this very moment do not come, and all he can think about are the tiny wisps of smoke rising from the smoldering tapestry as all traces of his brother are removed from his life. He will be a good son and heir; he will not cause his mother any more grief and he will learn the truth. But the smoke trickles through his brain and tickles his conscience until Sirius' eyes burn beneath his lids every time he closes his own.

Regulus opens his eyes and vows to do what his brother could not.


	2. Chapter 1: The Table of His Father

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any associated characters, places and events.

**The Table of His Father**

"Sirius! Sirius!"

The five-year-old ran, feet slapping against the carpet to his big brother.

"Hold up there, Regs," Sirius laughed and he was just strong enough to lift Regs and swing him round once. Puffing, he lowered his little sibling to the ground and sat back on his heels. "What's the hurry, birthday boy?"

"Can you fix my collar?" Regs begged. "Mama won't see me till I'm ready and I can't get it right!"

"Of course I can." Sirius crossed his arms in an imitation of their father and tried a lopsided expression of haughty displeasure that merely looked comical on his childish face, despite its heavy lines. "But you know you're five today, so it's 'Mother,' not 'Mama' anymore. She insists, so that we 'may properly maintain the dignity befitting the house of Black,'" reported Sirius importantly.

Regs giggled. "All right. But my collar, please?"

When the collar of the black and silver coat was correctly arranged, Sirius led Regs down the majestic stairs into the drawing room. Regs waited for Sirius to step aside, for though he was the heir, this was the day of Regs' recognition into the world of dignity and responsibility. Today, he was to take up a recreation according to the decree of his ancestry, learn how to cultivate a healthy social disposition and begin his early wizardry studies. This was to be brought about by daily classes in deportment, history, basic magical theory and the current state of affairs in the world, particularly within the ministry. He was to decide between a hobby of serpent care, potions or astronomy, begin flying lessons, which were to take place at Uncle Alphard's property and sit at the big table to learn the proper use of utensils in every circumstance. Mama – no, Mother – had invited his Black cousins and aunt and uncle, as well as his grandfather. Sirius, as heir, would lead him out, but Regulus was to rely only upon himself for the rest of the evening. Sirius had begun these very same studies two years prior, but his daily instruction also included the workings of the family, and its history; the honour and recognition he would command at its head someday.

"Regulus Arcturus Black," said Ma - Mother grandly as he entered behind Sirius. She frowned at her older son and he stepped aside sharply. She bestowed a beauteous smile, full of pride and expectation on her younger son. On this same day, Sirius had begun his travels into the territory of sophistication, but he lacked a certain finesse that she sensed in Regulus and knew she could bring it out if it were carefully nurtured. Sirius had forgotten to bow to his grandfather first and sulked at having to choose his hobby, wishing instead to spend every weekend on his broom. She so abhorred the petulant pout he'd had that day that she'd never quite forgotten it. He'd run off to his uncle's far too eagerly, like a hooligan or one of those muggle-raised upstarts she so detested. She shuddered at the memory, but smiled indulgently at Regulus, her little prince, and bright as a button. Oh, Sirius was intelligent, but he had no wish to truly apply himself. He'd taken up astronomy eventually, but only after adding potion ingredients far too boisterously and melting the best copper cauldron, and tried to extract snake venom from the Indian cobra instead of providing rodents for its meal. The late nights often left him unruly and unmanageable but it kept him from too much mischief in the end.

And here was her little son, not fidgeting, standing straight and proud.

"Enter the realm of your inheritance," she said and motioned him inside.

Regs took a deep breath, and walked a few paces. He stopped smartly and bowed first and deepest to his grandfather, Arcturus Black; then to his father, Orion; to his mother, Walburga; and finally to his mother's brother, Uncle Cygnus. Regulus looked up at his mother and his eyes found the almost imperceptible signs of approval between the harsh lines and rigid features. He relaxed ever so slightly and waited for her to speak again.

"Have you, my second son, chosen a hobby that befits your position as a scion of the house of Black?" she asked him, hoping for a proper answer this time.

"I have decided to take up the art of potions," he piped up in his youthfully untempered voice, serious as he could be. Had Walburga been a person of many tears, she would have wept to see him. He was not perhaps as handsome as Sirius, which was all to her heir's advantage of course, but Regulus just had a spark of proper decorum waiting to be cultivated, and his smooth child's face would serve him well enough for the time being. If only Sirius' introduction had been so perfect. Although perhaps her expectations had been unreasonable; Sirius had been the first and so had no one's mistakes to learn from but his own, whereas Regulus could learn from Sirius'. And he had done so.

Regulus held his breath and crossed his fingers behind his back. He heard the tiny puff of air from Sirius that meant he had seen and was amused. Mother smiled at him again, and he let out his breath, his child's face betraying relief as his choice was accepted. He was ready to join the table of his father.

Regs walked evenly to his place at the foot of the table, normally reserved for his uncle. Sirius took his usual place two seats from his father who was sitting at the table's head where Orion was flanked on either side by his wife and father. Where Regulus normally sat, on Sirius' other side, was their oldest cousin, Bellatrix.

Regulus struggled to pull out the chair on his right for Narcissa, six years his senior, and she was just kind enough to place her slippered foot around the corner of the leg to help him. He glanced at her sideways and saw a tiny smile on her graceful countenance, surrounded by shimmering waves of blonde hair. He waited while she sat, then carefully pushed it back in again. Taking his own seat, his feet did not even reach the ground when raised upon such an elaborate throne of dining. He sat straight in his chair and looked around the table.

His family all spoke imperiously to one another, sneers and raised eyebrows of contempt on every other face. Narcissa's sister, Andromeda, older again by two years was quietly discussing fashions with the blonde and he could see his oldest cousin seated by Sirius and giving him a nasty earache by the look on his brother's face. He tried to keep his face as blank and regal as possible, tilting his chin up slightly while desperately trying to hear the conversation four seats away.

"Well, well, cousin, why so _serious_? Jealous of your brother's success?" sneered Bellatrix, her face held in lines of perfect elegance, but her eyes full of malice. "Oh, pardon me; I appear to have slighted you." She laughed gently, the throaty tones cascading down the table. One look at Sirius' face and Regulus knew that his brother was going to end up locked in the Dark Room for disobedience and disrespect unless he was diverted before he could speak. Regs quickly sat forward, careful to keep his shoulders straight and called out the first thing he could think of to Andromeda.

"Andromeda, can you tell me about Professor Forld's dueling class?" His face was eager, hoping to hear about wonderful tales of battle and magic, the wonder of it still fresh for him. Half of the table quieted to listen to the response; the spry school professor was a well-known duelist and came from one of the near-extinct family lines. Regulus was too young to feel particularly nervous at the new attention, but he could sense the eyes of both his mother and cousins upon him and hoped the ploy hadn't been too obvious - or subtle. Sirius was always telling him to use his childish face, 'cos _they_ both knew he was smart, but no one else ever expected it. Sirius had been about to reply heatedly to a barb that he _knew_ had been placed carefully under his skin. Regulus couldn't talk to either Sirius or Bellatrix because it would have been too rude to speak across his other two cousins unless he was spoken to from their end first, but he _could_ speak to Andromeda. And if he said something interesting enough that Bellatrix was diverted, then Sirius would only be talking to thin air.

"Professor Forld?" inquired Andromeda, her heavily-lidded eyes watching him sharply. Regulus focused on the conversation, ignoring Bellatrix's contemptuous gaze.

"Yes, didn't you say," here he paused, searching for something to discuss. "Didn't you say he was giving private lessons?"

"Why, yes," Andromeda replied. She was still eyeing him carefully. "Are you eager to begin such studies, then?" Here almost the entire table turned to see his reply.

"I think dueling is good for practicing magic and learning control and – and it is good to be able to defend yourself and your honour!" Regulus squeaked, knowing his answer was important. Somehow, a question to distract Bellatrix had become an inquisition into his own knowledge and beliefs. He swallowed and reached for a glass of water, small hands holding it tightly to prevent it from spilling.

"Well," Bellatrix smirked. "At least we won't have to worry about Regulus preserving the Black family honour!" The sentence was innocuous enough, but amidst the indulgent smiles of the adults, Regs could see Sirius bristling, all the indignation of his seven years blazing beneath the aristocratic brows.

"Now, dearest, let the boy enjoy his day in peace," cooed Aunt Druella. She soon took Bella's interest away from immature cousins by denouncing the mudbloods amongst her fellow fifth-years. Regulus let out a breath and almost slumped, catching himself at the last second. He saw Mother nod imperiously at him and he sat a little straighter as the first course was served. Sirius caught his eye and let a little misery seep out of his expression. Regulus nodded back at him, unsure what he could do. Sirius was _always_ picked on by Bella but she was so much older that neither of them could do much about it. It was the life of the elite. Take your curses or send them back, Father would snarl at them sometimes. Sending them back to her would be disrespectful because they were younger. Even though Sirius could get away with it because he was the heir, he always let them get to him and got angry instead of even. So in the end, Sirius couldn't even take his curses the way he was supposed to.

Regs was brought back to earth by a small nudge from Narcissa.

"Nice save," she murmured to him. He looked at her wide-eyed, but she was eating daintily and held only disdain on her face for any conversation while eating. Andromeda was similarly engaged, haughtily regarding the rest of the table. Regulus did his best to remain emotionless but inside his heart was pumping a little too fast for comfort. He hoped Father hadn't noticed.

A short while later, in the middle of the next course, during which Regulus had _almost_ chosen the wrong fork, the topic of discussion turned to Bella's grades in Charms, which were apparently nearly quite as good as those for Transfiguration.

"I'm sure you can do a little better," said Uncle Cygnus gruffly. Regulus glanced at his uncle but did not allow his gaze to linger very long. If he was ruthlessly honest with himself, he did not really like his Uncle. He got very loud after the whisky was brought out and seemed to be a bit mean sometimes. Sirius said that he was bitter because Mother had managed to give Father two sons but Uncle Cygnus had three children and they were all girls. Regs didn't really understand why Uncle was called bitter – wasn't that something nasty you tasted? – but he could understand why he wanted a son. Girls were soft and their inheritance was only a dowry but the sons got all the property and were the heirs. Not that Regs thought Bella was particularly soft; in fact she was probably the hardest girl Regs knew and she was a lot meaner than Sirius! Andromeda was tough too, Regs thought. Narcissa was the soft one, but she was a real lady. Andromeda - and Bella too he supposed - were ladies, but they didn't have the thing Narcissa had – 'poison,' Sirius had said once, giggling. But that wasn't right. Pause? Poise? Something like that.

"Charms are very important for lateral thinking and creativity in dueling," Uncle Cygnus continued. "I do hope you aren't neglecting it." There was a little sneer under his voice.

Bellatrix's eyes were burning as she tossed back her inky hair. In the light of the fire, her face was shadowed and hollowed in strange places but Regs thought she looked sort of proud and kind of beautiful. Then she spoke and it was just his contemptuous cousin again, thorns ripe in her tone and the mocking disgust dripping from her tongue.

"Neglect, Father? Oh no, the last essay I completed was marked down because I took the liberty of asking for permission to use the Restricted Section purely in order to disprove that idiot professor's theory on the destructive value of blood for anchoring complex charms. I'm sure she's only a half-blood at best, but why they'd let anyone teach with the amount of sense she's got is far beyond my comprehension."

"We must write to Board of Governors and complain then," cried Aunt Druella, eyes lighting up at the prospect of having a hand in the dismissal of incompetence. Uncle Cygnus only grunted agreement and nodded sharply in Bella's direction. It wasn't long before his cousin returned to her torture of poor Sirius. Regs couldn't hear the words but Sirius was getter redder and redder around the neck, while his lips gradually became bloodless. Regs was almost bursting with the need to help him but there was nothing he could do any more. Andromeda was utterly occupied with the discussion she was having with Aunt Druella and talking to Narcissa would accomplish nothing. Regs resisted the temptation to squirm uncomfortably in his seat. It as unlike those of Slytherin's ilk to remain when the dam was about to burst, and Sirius was so close to breaking that Regs could even see his eyes dilating.

He gasped as Narcissa brushed his hand with a pale finger. He looked at her, forgetting to hide his expression. He could see himself in the reflection of her eyes, slightly panicked and braced for the explosion that was imminent. But in her face he could read two things: a tiny amount of sympathy for him, and a little malicious glee at what was to come. The pretty blonde said nothing but Regs turned away from her, angry and blank. He fed himself blindly, not noticing the satisfaction radiating from his mother at his unmoved expression. He was so preoccupied with hiding his internal resentment for his cousins that he was unprepared for the bomb that was Sirius.

"Shut up!" Sirius all but screamed, on his feet in a flash, fists clenched at his sides. The movement had knocked the dish near his elbow flying towards Bella's smug face. Shocked and startled, Regs could only think that it was accidental magic due its completely unusual trajectory from the table to her face with only an elbow for propulsion. It halted inches from her nose and lazily settled back down to the pristine tablecloth of silver on black. Even more surprised, Regs looked around to see Mother's wand tangled carelessly in her fingers. She'd known it would happen! Regs was a little hurt that Mother would let Sirius be provoked like that, but when she saw him looking at her with that little face so round with incomprehension and surprise, she gave him a little frown and raised an eyebrow. Regs shut his mouth, blanked his face and settled back, understanding.

Sirius had to take his curses or send them back. He had to learn how to beat Bella at her own game or he would never lead the family right. Regs knew it was necessary. How many times had he heard Father telling them that? And Mother yelling at Sirius to behave like a proper, dignified pureblood?

Father stood up as well, thunder on his face and utterly, utterly furious. "How dare you?" he hissed, his frame trembling from the sheer intensity of his fury. "You have shamed us! How dare you speak to your own blood in such a manner? Leave the table this instant!"

Mother's face, a moment ago so calm to Regulus, was contorted with disgust. "Leave your filthy mudblood habits in your head and behave with proper decorum or you'll never see the outside of the house again!" Her tone promised a harsh punishment and Regs shivered to hear it.

Sirius was as stiff as a rod, and his handsome face devoid of emotion as he turned from the table and walked out of the room. Regs hoped he had the sense to go to the Dark Room and spare himself the humiliation of being dragged there. Mother would deal with him after the meal.

Aunt Druella shook her head sadly. "He's got a bold streak that one. He'll come out with bravado every time unless you crush it out of him now."

"Thank you, Druella," snarled Mother, summoning the house elves to bring out the next course. "For your advice on how to treat my _son_. You have so much experience in the matter." Aunt Druella's face turned an interesting shade of purple and she busied herself with eating.

Regs didn't remember how he got through the rest of the meal, but a long time later, after Uncle Cygnus had laughed cruelly into his whisky and he'd made his bows to his grandfather and cousins as they left, he crept up the stairs and stood in the corner of the hallway, waiting. Not long after, Mother's footsteps began up the stairs and Regs shivered with dread. She arrived at the Dark Room and stepped in with her wand raised to light the gloom. Regs peered after her from the darkness of his corner and saw the outline of Sirius standing straight on the bare wooden floor. The room was empty, and always had been. It was charmed so that no sound would escape or enter from outside and was never heated. No elf ever ventured into it by express order and the lock on its door was warded. No light could enter if it was closed. Regs waited and trembled from the words his Mother was saying though he could not hear them. Each sentence of invectives and tirade of abuse seemed to strike Sirius physically and he flinched as she towered over him. However, when Mother's hand slapped him across the face he did not move, proud and resistant. Regs saw Mother convulse with wrath at his reticence. The hand came down again, this time on his backside and Regs cowered in the darkness. When she had finished her tirade, Mother strode out of the room, straightening her robes. She shut the door with a loud snap and activated the lock before walked away, breathing heavily.

Waiting for a few moments, Regs slipped from his hideaway and went to his room. He carefully scrawled a note, his largely untrained hand smearing the ink a little. He blew on it to dry and tiptoed down the hall to the Dark Room. It was a long time ago that they had discovered the lock only held for the door frame and the light blocking spell did not stop anything else from getting under the door. He slid the note under, hoping Sirius would hear the slide of it against the floor and pushed the loaded quill after it. Sirius would wipe any stray ink from the floor after he had replied, to stop Mother from knowing.

Regs sat on the cold hallway floor, knowing that Sirius would be a lot colder and waited for a response to his little scrap of apology and well-wishing. It wasn't long before the paper returned, the writing messy from writing blind. It was only short for the quill only held so much ink. Regs took it, and the quill, back to his room and read it slowly, sounding out the words.

_Never mind. Go and dream, birthday boy._

A/N: Thank you very much to my reviewers, for their encouragement and advice. It is greatly appreciated. Also thanks to those who are following on alerts. I should mention that updates are likely to be sporadic and unpredictable, but please enjoy what I've got.


	3. Chapter 2: The Truth of His Heart

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any associated characters, places and events.

A/N: Thank you once again to my readers, please enjoy the next chapter!

**The Truth of His Heart**

Regs gripped the narrow shaft of wood between his legs and took a deep breath. His first flying lesson would set the level of the rest of his training at his Uncle Alphard's country property. The broom had risen with good speed into his hand at his command and Sirius, with only the slight shimmer of a glamour spell on his cheek to hide the bruise _if_ you were looking hard enough, had whooped in delight. Regs had half expected a quelling look from his uncle but Sirius obviously knew better because all Uncle Alphard had done was chuckle and slap him on the back, telling him to hurry up and mount it.

Regs inhaled once more and bent his knees. Sirius was already swooping over his head, yelling out into the open sky. Regs squeezed his eyes shut and jumped, opening his eyes again immediately so he could see what was happening. His stomach dropped and he shouted in surprise, his feet hovering several feet above the ground. The broom wasn't vibrating but there was an energy that Regs could feel in the wood, the magic that let it fly. He was tempted to let himself go and fly around to get the feel of it, but he followed his instructions and leaned forward, pushing the handle away from him. He was lowered gently back to earth, until his feet were firm upon the ground.

"Well done, my boy!" shouted Uncle Alphard, grinning from ear to ear. He waved up to Sirius, who zoomed quickly back to join them.

"How'd he go?" asked Sirius breathlessly, perched just above them, leaning precariously over the end of his broom.

"Perfectly! I think he might well be as good as you were, but I'll have to see him move around first," replied their uncle cheerfully. He stepped back and motioned Regs back into the sky, giving him free reign in that open, open blueness. Regs steadied himself and saw Uncle Alphard mutter and jab his short, stout wand at the grass. Probably a Cushioning Charm, Regs thought. He pushed off again, gasping as he rose more quickly this time. When he was about twenty metres above the ground, he stopped and hung there, feeling the small breeze rush through his hair and banner his robes. He stopped and stared around, overcome by the sheer _size_ of the sky. There was so much space around him that he'd never really accounted for before. And all of it was free for his use! Well, almost all of it, he reminded himself, grinning as he saw Sirius spiraling underneath him, giggling madly. Now he understood why Sirius always ran to come here.

"Fly, boy!" yelled his uncle. "Go on; show me what you can do!"

Regs nodded and leaned forward, pulling the broom up a little. He began to move, and rise just a little further into the welcoming heavens. He bent closer to his lifeline and felt the wind begin to sing in his ears, the choir of his freedom. The trees were soon far below and he leaned left, then right, accelerating into the turns, feeling the broom respond to his instinctive movements. When he leaned a little too far, he found himself upside down, and sped along for a few seconds with a breath caught in his throat, halfway between fear and exhilaration, before he realized how to twist back up and powered higher into the sky, where the birds knew their home.

Closing his eyes, Regs spread his arms and called out; not really knowing what he was saying, just asking the clouds of their dreams and telling the world that he was free. When the broom leveled out and began to fall again, he opened his eyes and held on once more. He found Sirius far below, corkscrewing wildly around the trees. Pressing himself close, Regs sped down to him, braking sharply and effortlessly joining him in the other half of the helix. He saw his brother smile at him, gleeful. Regs understood. He finally understood.

They looped together and raced down the pitch, dipping until the grass kissed their toes, sun bright on their faces, lost in the joy of it. But duty could never be silenced.

"Regulus!" The imperious call came far, far too soon. Obediently, Regs slowed and steadied himself, dropping until he came to a slightly stumbling halt. Walburga surveyed him imperiously, observing the brightness in his eyes, the flush in his cheeks and the still panting breaths from the rush. Distaste and approval warred on her face.

Regs looked up at her, making an effort to calm his breathing and stand straight, but he could not repress the smile that lit his face. He desperately hoped his mother would not resent him for it.

"Well?" she demanded of Uncle Alphard, not taking her eyes off Regs' almost-calm face, which was still not any less joyful.

"He's as good as Sirius was for a raw beginner, and with proper technique, he'll do nicely, might even make the house team when he gets to school. There's more to focus on in his technique than on general flying but he's got the instinctive talent for it, same as young Sirius 'ere."

Walburga's face spoke volumes for Uncle Alphard's lack of refinement and formality. "Position?" she snapped, lifting her chin and glaring at Uncle Alphard.

"Well, he's not solid enough for beater or keeper, and he may yet get enough upper body muscle for chaser, but his best bet would certainly be seeker for his build. Needs to have the eye for it, though."

Walburga nodded approvingly. Seeker was a fine position, the most difficult and highly sought after. "See you give him proper eye training, then. And your progress report on Sirius?"

Uncle Alphard scratched his chin, and nodded enthusiastically. "He's wonderful, simply wonderful. He's quick, agile and he has the talent for it, always has. I reckon he'd make a fantastic chaser or beater. In fact, he might work off some of his boisterousness if he whacked a few bludgers around."

There was no doubt about it; Mother's face was definitely showing distaste now. She said nothing but Regs could imagine what she was thinking. No finesse, just pure physical brutishness to being a beater. But she said none of it, for which Regs was grateful.

"See to it," was her parting shot, and then she turned and left. Regs turned his gaze longingly back to the open blue and did not hesitate when his uncle laughed a booming laugh and said, "Go on, then, lad. Get back up there. We'll get to technique next time."

There was nothing, absolutely _nothing_ good to be said for the daily deportment class, Regs decided. Mother was his teacher, at least for now, until she decided he could hold his own and wouldn't embarrass the family. He was sitting at a desk with his back braced against a board, and a small stack of books balanced on his head.

"It's crude," Mother lectured. "But effective. I expect all your deportment classes to be undertaken thus until it is second nature, and then they shall be removed. For now, stand, walk around the room thrice, and return to your seat."

Regs placed his hands upon the table for balance, jerking them back when the stick came down to smack them. The books, already wobbling, cascaded down as Regs cringed. Before they hit the floor, Mother was already directing them back into the air.

"Sit straight!" she barked. "No hands!"

Regs sat upright and forced his hands by his side. The books were lowered slowly until he could support them and the hover charm was lifted. Taking a deep breath and letting it fill out his stomach so as not to adjust his back, Regs braced his feet and began to stand. The volumes of history he would study after the deportment lesson trembled precariously, and then began to waver. He reached a critical point where he was least supported and managed to hold it steady. As he straightened his legs, he glanced with his eyes at his mother, who seemed blank faced, but radiated a sense of satisfaction. Regs wasn't sure how to proceed, but just then the chair pulled back from his legs. He started and the books teetered alarmingly. Breathing slowly, Regs centred himself and began to shift his weight. Four steps later and the books tumbled a second time. Determined to show no response this time, Regs simply repositioned himself and waited for the books to be set upon his heads again.

On his second circuit, Regs noticed a dark smudge at the corner of his eye and had to wait until he had come a half circle before he could see that it was Sirius peeping around the corner of the room, sporting a commiserating grimace. Regs dared not pause but blinked a few times and received a wink in return. The books dipped and swayed.

"Sirius Orion Black! Why aren't you in your lesson with your father?" The voice screamed out and Regulus jumped, badly frightened, as books began to fly for the sixth time. Sirius skulked into the room, head hanging.

"You have no respect for the teachings of your family and now you come and interrupt your brother's lessons? How dare you? Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

Sirius' head snapped up and his eyes were wide with fear.

Regs barely noticed that the books had fallen gently to the ground as Mother stormed towards Sirius, grabbing his arm hard enough to leave bruises and dragging him to the centre of the light. She turned him about and began to strike his backside hard enough that he yelped in shock and pain. Regulus stood helpless, flinching every time Sirius was struck. Suddenly, he couldn't stand it any more.

"Mother, please! Don't hurt him!" he sobbed and ran forwards, tugging her robes. He was knocked flying as she spun, fury making her larger and more fearsome than ever.

"How dare you?" she screeched at him. Regs had so seldom been on the receiving end of her rage that he cowered on the floor, weeping.

"Stand up at once!" Mother shrieked and pulled him up by the scruff of his robes. Regs was so frightened that he cried out and nearly let go of his bladder. He couldn't breathe. Mother loomed before him; hand rising higher and higher into the air to deliver a blow that he would remember for the rest of his life, he was sure of it. As the hard, silver-ringed fingers began to descend, Regs flung his hands up to protect his face and curled away from her, braced instinctively for the slap. It never landed.

After several moments, Regs looked up. Mother's hand hovered a foot away from his shoulders, stopped by some force. Her face was slack, shock frozen into place. For a moment Regs thought she had been immobilized, but then she turned her head to look at Sirius who had both hands outstretched towards Regs, a determined and beseeching look on his face that was tempered with fear. His face likewise turned to shock and he dropped his hands, looking at them with disbelief. Mother's hand fell from its stopped position as soon as Sirius lowered his hands, but the hard fingers merely grasped Reg's shoulders. She turned him towards his brother.

"Look well, my son," she rasped, hair coming out of its bun. "This is evidence of your brother's power; its first manifestation in the world, spent in an act to prevent harm from coming to you. He respects the brother of his family, if not the wisdoms of his parents. I can only hope that this is an indication that his blood will call to him and show him the truth of his heart." And with that, she began to walk out of the room, an inscrutable expression on her face. She paused before Sirius, looked into his face and nodded at what she saw there. Sirius was still frozen in shock, both at what he had done and at Mother's reaction.

"Return to your father as soon as you can control your face," were her parting words.

When they were alone, Regs ran to Sirius, who seemed unable to pry his face out of its surprise, and hugged him tight about the middle. He began to weep again, in relief as much as gratitude.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," he whispered until he felt his older brother's arms come down around him.

"It… it was nothing," replied Sirius, squeezing him and burying his face in Regs' hair.

"She let you go!" said Regs in awe after a time, looking up at last. "She was proud of you!"

Sirius looked clobbered anew. "She was… wasn't she?" he whispered. "I can do magic!"

"Well, we knew _that,_ stupid!" Regs replied. "That dish at dinner the other night didn't send itself into Bella's face, did it?"

"No, but I actually tried to stop her, and it worked!" Sirius said. He leapt into the air and whooped.

"You'd better get off to Father, or she'll get angry again though," warned Regs, and Sirius soon took his leave, stooping for a last hug. With a sigh, Regs took his seat again, stacking the history books in front of him, until Mother returned to teach him. He was happy for Sirius, so very happy, and warmed to his very core that love for Regs had been the catalyst for Sirius' first proper magic, but happiness and love didn't help him learn history after all.

After an hour or two of intense history lecturing and reading some heavy tomes of ancient reports on the lives of notable witches and wizards, Regs was released to attend his very first class on potion-making. He had chosen his hobby after great thought, for astronomy held only a passing interest to him, and serpent care was just the Slytherin pureblood precursor to Care of Magical Creatures, and not all that much use to the elective because it was so limited. Potions on the other hand was quiet and subtle, requiring precision and a steady hand, and was a good source of income if Regs decided he wanted earn a little pocket money even though the wealth of his family would ensure he'd never really have to work a day if he didn't want to.

His teacher was a Potions Master called Professor Morten, an old family friend and another childless remnant of an ancient line. He was tall and lean, and the lack of stoop in his frame only served to make him more intimidating. His face was round and expressive, with pale eyes that gleamed in the candlelight. When he spoke, Regs could hear a slight French accent.

"So!" the Professor said sternly. "You have decided to take up the art of potions. As young as you are, I expect utter obedience for the duration of these lessons, as any deviation, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, from my strict instructions could result in any number of potentially fatal accidents. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir!" squeaked Regs. He tried to stand straight.

"Potions is exact and precise. It is not the magical equivalent of mundane cuisine; it is not as simple as following a recipe. Magic is invested in the preparation of ingredients of both magical and non-magical origins, and in the careful ministrations of the cauldron regardless of spell casting. You will find that although potions may not require a spell, the input of power comes from your concentration to the technique and precision of your work. It is the difference between waving your wand and saying the words, and actually casting a spell – power is used, exact motions and pronunciation is required, and concentration above all must be devoted! Are you following?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Very well." Professor Morten shoved a book at him across the table. "Look at the first five potions in the index. Choose one of them to brew today. Ordinarily we would start with harvesting ingredients, examining their properties individually and in combination and deciphering the result of motions and temperature, but I wish to see how you cope with the brewing without this knowledge – in effect, I will watch to see how you proceed given only the wand and the incantation."

Regs opened the book and ran his finger down the list. Stain-removing Solution, Silver-Polishing Potion, Cooling Concoction, Simple Cologne and a Bruise Salve. Regs frowned as he contemplated the list but smiled when he read the last one, and sat back, resolute.

"I would like to attempt the Bruise Salve, Professor," he requested, looking up with wide, beseeching eyes. The man glared down at him.

"Oh, don't think to try your eyes on me, little master Black," he scolded. "I have taught many students potions and none of them have wheedled assistance out of me to make them seem any better than they are. I do not expect that your first attempt will be very successful, so be warned."

Regs was provided with the ingredients for the potion and did not notice Professor Morten watching him with calculating eyes as his face creased into lines of determination, quite set on proving the man wrong. He began to follow the instructions in the book, using the mortar and pestle to crush beetles to a fine powder, and measure out exact lengths of plant roots. Professor Morten lit the fire when he was ready and wordlessly filled it two-thirds full of water. Regs let it heat up, then added the powder, stirring it three times clockwise, and two counterclockwise. He looked in askance at the professor, who turned down the flame obligingly, and then added his roots one at a time, stirring once clockwise after each addition. Then he sat back to wait for ten minutes, letting the potion boil until it turned light green. As he watched it carefully, he thought about the hard hands of his mother as they descended upon Sirius; the bruise that was left on his face and those on his arms as she dragged him to the centre of the room. His teacher was silent.

After the time was up, Regs leapt towards the cauldron, reaching for a small vial which held salamander tears. His small hands carefully let two drops fall, then he was stirring again, the tip of a small pink tongue poking from the corner of his mouth.

When he had completed the instructions, Professor Morten removed the flame and immediately placed the now yellow paste into a large jar.

"Impressive," the man said, examining the salve with narrowed eyes. "It certainly looks as I'd expect, but whether or not it works shall be the true test. It so happens-" Professor Morten raised the sleeve of his arm to reveal a dark bruise just below his elbow. "That I have a bruise on which it may be tested."

At Regs' questioning gaze, he elaborated. "Even with dragon-hide gloves, the spikes of the Venomous Tentacula strike hard enough to bruise," he growled. "But now, let us see."

He dipped his fingers into the greasy paste and rubbed it between fingers and thumb, giving in a sniff. "Slightly lumpy; there are still some small grains, but nothing unexpected from a first potion," he muttered. "Smells normal, clears the sinuses."

Regs shifted from foot to foot nervously. The professor spread the salve onto his skin, massaging it into the purple and black area. After it had been absorbed, he wiped his fingers, and reached for his wand, ready to act if the potion had gone wrong. However, after a few seconds, the edges of the bruise began to turn brown, then green and yellow. Under the professor's astonished gaze and Regs' triumphant one, the bruise gradually faded.

"Well, well, Mr. Black, it appears you may just have a talent for the art!"

Regs was tempted to whoop. "Thank you, sir!" he chirped.

"That shall be all for today, but next lesson we shall begin the study of some common ingredients, so be prepared for some reading," Professor Morten replied sternly. His pale eyes still held a hint of amazement. "You may keep your product, a very useful salve for young boys overly fond of Quidditch, I daresay. Dismissed."

With another stammering of thanks, Regs took up his precious jar and climbed the stairs back to his bedroom. Placing the yellow ointment carefully on his shelf, he went eagerly in search of his brother. After waiting for him outside one of the workrooms on the middle level, Sirius eventually emerged from a hard lesson in economics, wearily rubbing his face. He brightened at the sight of his brother.

"How did potions go, Regs?" he asked keenly. "Blow anything up?" Regs only beckoned in reply and took off for his bedroom. He took great pride in lifting down the jar and carefully presenting it to Sirius, who raised his eyebrows and took it.

"Bruise salve!" was all Regs could get out in his excitement. He put some on Sirius' arms and they watched together as the marks disappeared. Sirius beamed at Regs and gave him a tight hug.

"Thanks, Regs!" he said, and sighed in relief. "Can you put some on my cheek?"

Regs nodded solemnly and squinted at the shimmering area on his brother's face where the glamour was hiding the evidence. He put it all over, not sure where the bruise actually was, but covering the whole glamour surface. As soon as he finished, the glamour vanished and all that was left was a slightly greasy-faced Sirius, grinning at him. Regs sniggered.

"Oi, you be quiet or I'll paint _your_ face too!"


	4. Chapter 3: The Magic of His Spirit

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any associated characters, places and events.

A/N: My greatest apologies for the long delay, the great Universe surrounded me and bent down to me and whispered in a deep and thundering voice in my ear: "Study…"

Many thanks to those who read while I was absent. Please enjoy the next installment and if you feel like it, please leave a review after the beep. *beep*

**The Magic of His Spirit**

The fire loomed in front of him, flickering hungrily less than a metre before his face. Regs swallowed nervously. His father growled in annoyance.

"Stand straight, boy! Don't show your fear! How many times have you been through the Floo with assistance before? It's just the same. Hurry up."

Regs stifled the flinch at the bark of anger and reached out a stiff hand towards the silver powder box. He took a small handful. Taking a deep shuddering breath, he stepped forward and faced the blaze bravely. No, bravely wasn't the right word. He faced it with stoic caution. Yes, that was it. Mother had mentioned the need to be stoic. The powder trickled from his hand and he quickly threw it into the flames before his father could scold him for balking. The fire turned emerald.

Regs stepped into it, feeling the familiar tickling warmth of the Floo network. The magic swirled in the fire around him. He opened his mouth, being certain not to breathe in the ash.

"Rosier residence, London!" he called. A moment later, Orion's stern countenance had spun away and Regs stood with his eyes squinting into the fireplaces flashing past. He was braced rather stiffly without the support of one of his parents standing behind him, but managed not to tumble out into someone else's fireplace. Finally things began to slow and he came to a halt in a banked fire grate which still flickered green and he stumbled out, a little wobbly on his feet. A house elf with a squashed nose and wearing a green tea towel with the Rosier crest on it appeared with a _crack_, bowed low at his feet and offered him a clothes brush.

Regs smiled at the elf and held out his arms so the critter could remove the ash from his robes. It did so efficiently and Regs thanked it without thinking. He hated looking bad for his parents; it was his duty after all, to present himself neatly, and the house elf had given him good service. The creature seemed unable to speak, but its large and bulbous eyes suddenly sparkled and it appeared overcome. Regs was baffled as it made several jerky movements as if to express some sort of gratitude but disapparated away after a moment. Regs shook his head and stepped back to the fireplace to await his brother. He would rather not face the household alone. Just as he stopped, the fireplace lit up again and Sirius fell out, landing on one foot and hopping around for a few seconds, trying not to spread the ash with his arrival. The elf _cracked_ in again and whisked the dust from Sirius' robes, bowing low and disappearing once more. Regs supposed there was an alarm somewhere that alerted them when the Floo was activated. Sirius barely seemed to notice the elf. Regs frowned.

"I thought I heard the fireplace chime!" the sharp voice of Thora Rosier followed her sweeping entrance. "Good afternoon Misters Black. How do you do today?"

Regs and Sirius gave her a little bow in unison. "How do you do, ma'am?" they chorused.

"Come right in. Evan is in the playroom. I'm sure you'd like to join him. The others are here already." She swept off without looking back. Sirius looked at Regs and shrugged, following her. Regs had a little frown. Maybe she didn't mean to be rude, but she also seemed to be insinuating that they were late! They were sons of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black! A _little_ respect wasn't too much to ask, was it? Mother said people ought to be grateful to associate with them, but then the House of Rosier was respected too. Wasn't it?

Regs trotted along behind them at the end of the parade, feeling small and unimportant. That was not supposed to be right! He practiced his posture; chin up, neck upright but relaxed, shoulders back. He made sure his face was _stoic_.

When they reached the playroom, Evan Rosier was sneering at Eadric Avery's attempt to outmaneuver the heir to the Flint family on a gold-inlaid chess set.

"In you go, boys." Madam Rosier gestured them in and shut the door behind them.

"Move the pawn, Darius! The pawn!" shrieked Flint's younger sister.

"The pawn? Oh, good show, Flint," snickered Rosier. He attempted to speak again but was overcome with mirth and seemed unable to form a sentence.

"Shuddup, you little idiot!" Darius Flint hissed at his sister. "Nobody cares about the pawns!" He ordered his bishop along two squares instead, growling at the protests of the marble chess pieces.

Sirius swaggered into the room and draped himself languidly beside the board. "Enthralling," he drawled.

"Isn't it?" Evan replied. "I'm sure _gobstones_ would be more fun."

"Ooh, let's!" Ursa Flint exclaimed, missing the sarcasm.

"Maybe you can play with little baby Black over there. He seems too shy to volunteer himself." Rosier snorted at his own wit. Sirius winced.

Regs felt the anger swirl through his chest. He knew he had only seconds to place himself on the level of the older boys before they looked down on him forever. He had the stage.

"I may not be the grand old age of seven, Evan," he began. He paused for a moment, tempted to play with the rhyme before discounting it. "But I know a good game when I see one. Gobstones has its place, in-" he paused again and looked around, "a playroom. I'm sure I'll find a set somewhere on the shelf if you're interested in getting your robes messy." He took a breath. He needed to raise his standing with_out_ insulting Rosier. "Chess is better for intellectual stimulation." Thank goodness for Mother's speeches for getting fancy words! "I wouldn't mind a game, though I will probably lose due to your greater experience." A little flattery, and time to take the attention off himself. "Sirius, however, should be more than able to match your skill." Regs held his breath, hoping he hadn't misused any words or overstepped the boundary of his host. He could see Avery's wide eyed gaze watching them and Flint sneak his opponent's rook from the board while he was otherwise occupied. Ursa Flint seemed delighted at the thought of a game of gobstones. The Rosier heir was quiet for a moment.

"Fine," he sneered. "I'll play your brother and then we'll see how you hold up against a superior opponent." He turned and marched to the corner, returning with a second set and a gobstones board which he shoved at Regs.

"Entertain the lady while you're waiting to be beaten," Evan smirked.

Regs resigned himself to being covered in the nasty-smelling gobstones slime. Ursa set up the board eagerly. Her round face was bright with excitement. Regs sighed inwardly and let her make the first move. To his left, Sirius was setting up a strong attack on Evan Rosier, and even after illegally capturing the rook Darius Flint was losing badly to Avery. Regs wondered if he should win or lose at gobstones. Either way, he was bound to be attacked. If he lost to keep Ursa happy, Rosier, and most likely Avery too, would tease him about losing such an easy game to a _girl_, even though she was a year older than him. If he won, he wasn't being gentlemanly, and the older boys would point it out. Regs felt torn as he carefully navigated the stones around Ursa's blunt attack. Mother would tell him to play to which ever side gave him the best advantage, in which case, he should win the game. But maybe he could give Ursa the first shot. So he forged a side maneuver that ignored the main attack, but not too obviously, until with a gleeful laugh Ursa placed the gobstone on the board where it swiveled to face Regs and squirted out the rancid goop. Regs lifted an arm to catch most of the muck before it hit his face, but it still somehow managed to cover most of his front instead. The boys turned and whooped, their mean laughter bouncing off the walls. Regs ignored the jeers and continued to play quietly, occasionally ducking more of the slime and sending a few blasts Ursa's way in retaliation, where they were met with half-joyful, half-disgusted squeals of delight. Eventually, Regs pulled in front and finished the game with quite an inner relief, ignoring the expression of disappointment on the girl's face. She would live.

He walked quietly over to his brother's match, and observed a fierce tussle of intellect as Sirius' last bishop, a knight and queen tried to trap the black king in the corner of his own pawns and a stifled rook, despite a loud threat from Rosier's queen. In a moment of rare happiness, Evan Rosier appeared to be quite content, despite his losing side; perhaps he was glad to have a worthy opponent for once, and a real challenge. Sirius finally won through, barring the trap with the bishop, both queens having been sacrificed for the greater good of the game. They shook hands and were cheered by the other two boys who had finished their own game long ago and had since turned to more entertaining pursuits: namely, setting up the board and deliberately placing pieces in danger to watch them get smashed to pieces by each other, despite the quality of the chess set. As Regs looked over to their mock battle, the king violently beheaded a pawn, and in return, Avery stabbed the knight of his opponent's set with the rook. The pieces didn't seem to understand that the game was being played for the sake of violence and kept shrieking their horror at the loss of so many fellow men, even as they were thrilled to deal out the destruction their masters decreed.

"Where's Nott?" Sirius asked suddenly. Regs listened closely. Patrick Nott was another pureblood heir whose company was expected in the circles that Sirius and Regs were supposed to be moving. This group was the close-knit collection of superior acquaintances that the Black brothers would acknowledge when they attended large important events such as Ministry balls and ceremonies, not to mention pureblood parties and formal dinners for Christmas and New Years.

"Oh, he's in France with his parents," Avery replied dismissively. "Still visiting the dignitaries for the ministry, which of course means a holiday for Nott."

Rosier scoffed. Sirius shrugged. He wouldn't be complaining if he was in France.

Rosier looked up at where Regs was standing over them, his sneer firmly back in place and pointedly glanced at the floor where the slime was now dripping, Regs having tracked it as he walked without realizing. Regs refused to allow the hot flush of shame to burn in his cheeks and simply raised his eyebrows.

"If the result of the game displeases you, Evan, perhaps you would be so kind as to call your house elf?" Regs drawled. He was getting a little sick of being talked down to.

Rosier merely grimaced and opened his mouth to call imperiously: "Gilly!"

The crack of the apparating house elf was loud in the small room. Rosier pointed to the mess on the floor. "Clean it up, Gilly, and then clean the little Black master and Flint mistress. Don't miss a spot or you'll be sleeping in the cold-room again." The little creature with the squashed nose nodded, eyes wide and scuttled to the floor, gesturing and waving with odd little motions. Regs was rather incensed that the floor was attended to before him, but forgot as he watched in fascination. Not having done magic himself properly before, the wandless, wordless magic that elves performed was something remarkable to the imaginative young wizard. The stains fizzled and vanished under the silent elf's dancing fingers. He stopped still as the critter turned to him and repeated the process. Tiny hairs stood to attention on his arm as the magic washed over him. Sometimes Regs thought that he would just have _died_ if he had been born a muggle – not knowing this wondrous power. It wasn't even so much about being Noble and wealthy. Magic itself was so inherent, so intrinsic to him that he thought if he ever lost it that the world would shatter. It moved him, and moved in him and he _knew_ it as it moved around him. He recognized it as a kindred power. Where it acted on him, he conducted it. Of course, Regs couldn't say as much in so many words, but he knew it the way he knew that if he couldn't see the stars then the world would go black. Being, after all, a constellation, made the sky seem a very familiar place, as was the magic of his spirit.

As Regs mused, he did not notice that Ursa Flint was also being cleaned and that Rosier had reset the chess board. Only when Sirius touched his arm briefly did he blink and come back to the present, berating himself for the lapse. As he sat down across from the smirking 7-year-old, Regs found himself asking a question he had not meant to voice.

"Why is your house elf silent?" he inquired, interest colouring his tone.

Rosier paused with his hand hovering in mid air over his first move. For a moment he was surprised, as though it was unusual that anyone should notice a house elf but then his confident smirk returned.

"She once asked my father if he preferred to take his tea before or after he'd read the paper. Seeing as he always has it hot while he reads the Prophet, and he was… fatigued after returning from an international trip, he found her to be incompetent and forbade her to speak. She learnt her place soon enough."

Regs nodded. Though it seemed a little harsh, masters of house elves had to be strict, or the flighty creatures would become too familiar, or simply inept.

He felt a little flutter of apprehension as the four others gathered around to watch their battle. They whooped and groaned in turns as moves were executed. Regs tried to ignore them, but they crowded around, goading the players. He was getting a little distracted and saw Sirius' almost imperceptible wince as he lost a bishop early in the game. Regs was kicking himself inside, but kept his face impassive. He ruthlessly blocked out everything from his mind, concentrating until the noise was just in the background and all he could see was the chessboard. He needed to focus.

He carefully drew out a rook, trying to be as subtle as possible, muddling his knights with the pawns so their path to the king was unclear. He left Rosier frowning in concentration, trying to think five moves ahead with the complicated game play. Regs held his breath as he inched the rook closer to the trap, distracting with the knights and the bishop he had left, constructing a pawn wall and castling the king safely into the corner. He boldly placed his queen in a precarious position, but the trap depended on the other pieces, so he could afford to let her out a bit, as long as he wasn't so obvious with her apparent lack of importance so as to arouse suspicion…

But Rosier wasn't without his own skill. He had only narrowly lost to Sirius after all. He was ruthless in his attack and tried to out-maneuver Regs in an initial sweeping attack, which Regs only narrowly managed to avoid, and not without casualties – that first bishop was an early loss. Now Rosier tried to sneak a bishop down a blind line of attack while dancing his own knights around to keep Regs on his toes and out of check. Soon, the sacrifices became greater; the risks higher; the pawns were dropping like doxies and Regs' pawn wall was dismantled, the rooks were brought out in full force and the queens were raging like fires through every opposite piece they crossed. Regs lost a bold rook by design, saving his other for the trap, and a knight in quick succession. Sirius was gazing on in intense concentration; Regs could see him sweating lightly and felt warm inside. Could he see the trap from his side, knowing Regs' usual plays? In return for the dual loss, Regs snaffled Rosier's black square bishop and a knight, leaving the older boy frowning again. The tangled knights that remained were hesitant to move, protected by the few pawns that remained and the bishops were too precious to waste. Regs did managed to take one of his opponent's rooks when he wasn't looking, spurring the watching audience to make low noises of anticipation at Rosier's retaliation.

Very soon they came to a standstill. Rosier's fine queen manipulation had taken most of Regs' valuable assets and he'd been unable to take her out. He was down to a single bishop and rook, as well as a pawn or two, with his king sequestered in the corner and his queen on the edge of martyrdom. Rosier's arsenal was reduced to a knight, a bishop, a handful of pawns, one of which was two steps from promotion, and his queen, which was glaringly barring any escape for Regs' king. Regs was frantically scanning the board, looking for any way to finally set the trap he'd been planning from the start but there were problems in every direction. Rosier was waiting for his move and he did not know what to do. He dared not look at Sirius. The others would accuse him of cheating. He could see only one way to achieve his goal. If Rosier had seen the trap, which by now he must have, he would move the bishop, or the knight to protect the bishop. Regs took a deep breath and directed the queen to move. He could not afford to have the bishop underfoot.

Rosier did not hesitate. He leapt forward with the knight and snatched away Regs' queen. Regs heart plummeted. The floor gaped beneath him and he felt like he was falling. He had been too busy thinking about the bishop and had not seen the already present threat! He did not react to the cheers of the others and the moans of his pieces or let his dismay show on his face.

_Ok_, he told himself. _Rethink your trap. Now._

He moved his bishop to check the king, forcing Rosier's bishop to abandon its own threat and block the check. Regs did not allow himself overthink the moves, but let his instinct guide the rook into place. He watched emotionlessly as one of his pawns was slaughtered. Carefully, but with unerring precision, he gently backed the king into the corner. His attack had to be postponed several times as his own king came under fire, but he managed to slither out of danger every time. Rosier was baring his teeth now, having had his victory snatched from under his feet. But suddenly a tiny change came upon his face; there had been a miniscule tightening of Rosier's forehead, although his expression hadn't change. Regs looked down quickly. Rosier had moved a pawn forward. It had been on the very brink of reaching the final square and transforming into the second white queen that Rosier had wanted. Now Regs could see the reason for Rosier's excitement. With a second queen in that exact square, the line of sight would allow him to stop both of the avenues of attack Regs now had left from the rook and the bishop. His second plan was in ruins. But he had one move left to salvage the situation. He thought quickly, eyes darting from piece to piece, line to line and along corridors of possible movement. Finally, he was decided, and opened his mouth to speak.

"Pawn to g6," he said. It was a risk, a terrible, terrible risk. It was a huge gamble. If it failed then he would lose.

The pawn was blocking the first queen from making any useful move. It looked to be, on the surface, a delaying tactic, as if Regs had never noticed the upgraded pawn. But how could he have failed to notice? Regs felt time stretch as Rosier paused, deep in thought. If it wasn't a delaying tactic, then what was it? The second queen was in a good position to take either Regs' rook or his bishop. The bishop was in a more threatening position than the rook and Regs was desperate that Rosier should capture it, as logic would to tell him to. If he took the bishop Regs looked like he would lose. If he took the rook, the bishop would press the advantage. If he used the first queen to capture the pawn then Rosier was leaving himself open to further danger. But why would Regs have moved the pawn instead?

Regs could all but feel Rosier staring at him, weighing up Regs' cunning, age and ability.

_Please take the bishop. Please take the bishop. Don't see the rook. Take the bishop._

Rosier looked down again and pondered a while more. Regs tried to appear slightly puzzled as to the delay. Rosier looked at him again and nodded.

"Queen takes bishop," he ordered.

Regs dared not let out his breath, but spoke again without hesitation, calmly, making the only move that he could.

The rook slid into place. The trap was shut.

Rosier hadn't realized it yet, but was looking at the board for his next possible move. He shifted a queen, which Regs shortly removed, and swapped a pawn for Rosier's bishop. The older boy was beginning to make mistakes. Finally, almost stolen of a victory, Rosier saw that the only way to win was the sacrifice of his second queen. The move was made.

Regs watched Rosier for a moment, wondering if he had realized yet. He commanded his rook into the only move he could make to salvage the game.

Rosier opened his mouth to retaliate, paused and closed it again. He blinked. The remaining pieces were bowing to each other. Rosier looked up.

"A stalemate," he said flatly. "Good job, Black. I didn't see the trap. But I don't think you meant to lose your queen, did you?"

Regs shook his head. "No. But it was a good game," he said, daring Rosier to disagree.

"Yes, it was." Rosier watched him quietly. The others waited to see what he would do. "You play well. Guess you're too good for gobstones after all."

Sirius was beaming. Regs shook Rosier's hand with a small smile. The others nodded to him. Inside, Regs was whooping and leaping for joy. He'd been accepted as one of them and the older boys would no longer mistake his youth for immaturity, despite his nobility. He'd reached the inner circle of their acquaintance with a single game of chess. He felt liberated and confident; capable.

But in the corner, where young Ursa Flint had amused herself with a deck of Exploding Snap cards while the boring boys played chess, a small and hopeful voice piped up.

"Gobstones?"


	5. Chapter 4: The Justice in His Mind

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any associated characters, places and events.

**The Justice in His Mind**

Sirius' scowl was as loud as his complaints had been all morning. Mother had born it for less than a quarter of an hour before threatening him with dire consequences unless he was silent instantly, but he kept up a stream of mutterings and hissed complaints under his breath that Regs could not shut out. Finally, after the midday meal, a heavy semi-formal deal where their father had sat sneeringly at the head of the table, glaring at his sons and seemingly life in general, Regs had dragged Sirius into the drawing room away from their parents and put his hands on his hips.

"Look, I don't like this any more than you do, but you don't see me complaining, do you?"

Sirius screwed up his handsome face and gave an ugly shrug. "Well, fine. Just accept this torture like a good little son. Mother thinks you're so perfect anyway." His scathing voice cut right to Regs' core.

Regs didn't change a muscle in his expression, but something in his stance must have shifted, or else Sirius had thought about what he'd said for once. His brother's grey eyes had gone wide and his expression helpless. He reached out a supplicating hand to Regs but Regs ignored him.

"Very well then," he replied emotionlessly. "I'll just leave you to your thoughts." He turned to leave.

"Regs! No, _Regs!_ I didn't mean it, I'm sorry!"

Regs didn't stop, but reached to open the door. A hand grabbed him hard on the shoulder and spun him back away from the door. Sirius stood there, a look of despair on his face.

"I didn't mean it," he repeated desperately. "I just -" He trailed off. Something indescribable came onto his face, something Regs hadn't seen before. Sirius's face was tight and his eyes were wide. Regs realized that his brother was looking at him, in _fear_.

"Regs?" Sirius said nervously. "Regs? I'm sorry. Please."

Regs didn't understand what was wrong with Sirius. He was looking at his brother, hurt and disappointed and cold. He was so very angry, frozen in place for fear lest he do or say something he regretted.

"Don't touch me like that again," he said quietly, commandingly. His face was cold and hard. "And how dare you, how _dare_ you talk to me like that, when I know what she says to you. After I help you. It was never my fault that I do what she wants and you don't. That's your fault."

"I know," Sirius whispered brokenly. "And – I'm sorry. I'm _sorry_. I'm just so angry. I don't want to do this and we don't have a choice."

Regs' debated replying and decided he needed to be alone for a while first. He saw the despair in his brother's eyes as Sirius watched him turn away again. As he left to sit in his room to study a heavy leather-bound book of basic transfiguration theory, he didn't see Sirius shake himself like a dog to rid himself of the fear his quiet brother had inspired in him. Sirius shuddered again, seeing those grey eyes, so much like his own, burning like chips of ice in the dark face that was somehow so empty. How could someone so young have so much control over so much anger?

A bell rang through the house and Regs stood up from his desk chair, legs trembling. His breath came in short bursts but he tried to calm himself. He steeled his nerve and walked as steadily as he was able down to the basement. Sirius came up behind him and brushed him lightly on the shoulder. He turned eyes full of misery on his brother, whom he'd forgiven promptly after stilling his fury. Sirius looked back with undisguised pity. He knew.

They entered the room together and stood firmly in front of their mother who was waiting by the fireplace. The aged elf, Rinty, was quaking on the cold stones, her ragged pillowcase covering fluttering as though in a wind. Regs dared not look at the poor creature, lest his face show his horror. He tried to put all the loathing he felt at what was about to happen onto his face as loathing for the ancient house elf.

Walburga sneered down at the thing groveling and shaking at her feet. "My sons, observe this faithful servant of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. As functional as this elf has proven, age has rendered its service useless." The last word was drawn out into a gleeful hiss. Regs swallowed.

"In keeping with the tradition of this Noble House, an example will be made of this servant, to display before the future generation of those who provide and receive perfect servitude." Walburga's smile was twisted with an unholy delight as she bade her children watch the ceremonial display.

Regs felt Sirius tense behind him. Mother raised her dark wand high and ordered the elf to freeze. A sick tension filled the air and Regs fought every inclination of his body to turn and run or at the very least to shut his eyes. The wand swished down and the cutting curse fell from Mother's lips like rain. The head of the elf dropped away and rolled, blood spilling everywhere, a black puddle pooling and Regs squeaked and thought he might be sick –

Walburga followed straight through with a preservation charm and lifted the elf's wrinkled head to face her sons. Regs stared at the frozen expression on the elf's face that had not even been allowed to show fear or pain. He swallowed again, but did not look away. He realized that these ancient traditions were as much a part of their household as the elves themselves, and that this particular activity not only kept the elves in line but were a trophy of perfect servitude to show to other Noble lineages, but the idea of actually killing the creature seemed somewhat unsavoury to him. Behind him, he thought he heard Sirius retch a little.

Walburga barked at her sons to follow her up the stairs to the landing, where she attached the preserved skull to the board. She turned to face them once more, a satisfied grimace on her sharp face.

"Now, flesh of my flesh, you see the pride we have in our nobility, the practices we keep to remain, _toujours pur_." She turned again and shouted for Kreacher. The young elf appeared with a _crack_ and bowed low before his mistress, awaiting command.

"Kreacher, you are to take the place of your predecessor in the household at once. Clean up the mess in the basement, then continue with your normal duties." The elf, dismissed, _cracked_ away before Regs could see if he had reacted to the death of Rinty. He followed Sirius blindly into his brother's room and did not push him away when his older sibling's arms came around him. He heard a rumbling noise as Sirius spoke but didn't hear what he was saying. Sirius pulled back.

"Are you ok?" he repeated.

"What do you think?" Regs replied tonelessly. He sat down on Sirius' bed heavily. Sirius frowned at him.

"Well, I know you're not, but what did you want to do about it?"

Regs turned to him incredulously. "Do about it? Nothing!"

Now Sirius was amazed. "What do you mean, nothing?"

"I mean _nothing_. There is nothing we can do, and I wouldn't do anything anyway."

Sirius's dark brows drew together. "What are you talking about?"

Regs sighed and rubbed his head. He pressed his fingers into his eyes and watched the dancing streaks that appeared for a long moment. "This… beheading thing. I know it isn't pretty, but I get it. I get why she does it. I get that it's necessary. But that doesn't mean I want to _watch _it. Especially when I _like_ house elves."

"But, Regs." Sirius was aghast. "What do you mean, _you get it_? It's evil! She's killing them! It's murder!"

Regs sighed again and looked up. "Don't be so dramatic, Sirius. You know why she does it. I mean, she _just_ explained it. It's not that hard."

"Don't tell me that I'm too thick to get it! I think _you're_ too thick to see that it's murder!"

"Sirius," Regs snapped at last. "House elves are not people. You've told me that before, when I was upset that they hurt themselves. They are servants and live to be ordered around; that's their whole purpose in life. That means that when they outlive their usefulness, their master is allowed to deal with them as they see fit. If the tradition of our House is to put their heads on the wall, then that is what we should do. They won't be around to know anyway."

"Regs…" Sirius seemed lost for words. "But you _like_ them. How can you not understand?"

"What _I_ don't understand, Sirius, is why you suddenly care so much about house elves." Regs was getting agitated now. He should have guessed that Sirius would act out about this, regardless of the fact that house elves meant nothing to him. All he cared about was the justice in his mind.

"I don't care about house elves!" Sirius shouted, proving him right. "But there's no need to be violent!" Sirius was looking at Regs now as if he was a squib.

Regs felt distant and strange. His brother was so adamant that he knew what was best that he was driving himself away from the solid home they lived in. One day, there would be a break between them if this kept happening. Regs didn't know if he could handle that.

"Look," he said wearily. "Let's just – leave it. It's done and we can't change it now."

Sirius looked at him for a long moment before thrusting away and standing at the window with his back to his little brother.

"I – just – the blood," he said brokenly. "Everywhere. I can't believe – how much blood." Regs stood up and walked to Sirius' side. "I know." And they stood there, without touching, side by side, until the bell rang again to fetch them for a dinner that neither of them felt like eating at all.

"Dancing lessons?" Sirius groaned. "Why do we have to learn to _dance_?" A thwack sounded in the room. Regs turned quickly to see a scowling Sirius rubbing his shoulder where the Daily Prophet had landed solidly. Orion stood glowering above him.

"You will learn to dance," he hissed. "Because you are a Black, and Blacks must present perfectly in all formal occasions."

Sirius shrugged away from Father's shadow and stood sullenly next to Regs. "Can you believe this?" he added in an undertone. Regs raised his eyebrows. Sirius looked away.

"Just be grateful Bellatrix isn't here," he muttered.

Sirius puffed out a breath. "Thank Merlin for that." He watched as Father walked out of the room, no doubt to deal with business far more important and thrilling than teaching his sons to dance.

"Sirius!" Mother demanded. "Come here." She waited impatiently while Sirius shuffled over. "Hold your cousin's hand in your left and _gently_ hold her waist with your right. Do _not_ paw her like a drunkard. You must be a gentleman at all times." She waited while Sirius arranged his limbs as directed and resignedly held Andromeda's hand. The witch was far too tall for him. Narcissa was younger and far better matched to his height but then Regs would have had to dance with Andromeda and the difference in their heights would have been beyond ridiculous.

"Stand up _straight_, boy. Merlin. Shoulders back. Re_lax_." Mother barked out orders, simultaneously gesturing for Regs to do the same with the beautiful blonde witch. He stepped forward neatly and reached up to his cousin. Her face was schooled into lines of polite boredom. It took all of Regs' reach to grasp her manicured hand. He touched her waist lightly, gently curling his fingers around the small dip above her hips. She was wearing very lovely pale blue robes today. A tiny smile graced her features. He tried to stand tall and keep his head in line over his feet.

"Shoulders back, Regulus," Mother admonished. He obeyed immediately, a difficult feat admittedly as he had to reach so far.

Regs turned to look at his brother. Sirius had managed to find a good posture and Mother's lips were pursed approvingly. Sirius had never liked the posture lessons, but he had learnt them in the end.

"Point your toes, and lift your head up to look past your partner a little. Bring your chest out a little." Her hands guided Regs up and out a little more, and cuffed Sirius' wayward leg. She grabbed his chin and pointed it.

"Now," here she paused and waved her wand at an enchanted harp which began at once to play a heavy waltz. "There are three counts. As the gentleman, you will lead the lady where you wish to take her, and your feet must step long first, then round out with two and three, turning her with your right hand."

Regs blinked rapidly at Mother. He was a little panicked, not understanding.

"Narcissa, Andromeda, if you will demonstrate slowly…"

Regs hastily fasted his eyes on Narcissa's feet as she stepped backwards long, then adjusted on two and three, angling her body to step again. Regs was dragged after her, stumbling, and he narrowly avoided stepping on her toes.

"Again."

This time Regs noticed the guiding hand on his shoulder and let himself follow it, his legs naturally stepping into position. He stared at Narcissa's feet, trying to remember the motions.

"Regulus! Head up. Look past your partner. Affect disinterestedness but not disrespect. She is the other half of your motion, not the whole. You are equally affected by either of your actions."

The harp continued to count out the slow melody in three as they swirled around the floor of the drawing room. Regs chanced another glance at Sirius. He looked profoundly miserable, but Andromeda was patient and whispered the counts under breath when he lost his rhythm. Mother was trying to keep his back straight as they moved.

The circles they wove on the floor seemed endless and the faces of his ancestors and family on the tapestry looked down upon them balefully. Regs was grateful that Narcissa had decided to be friendly today. Merlin only knew what havoc Bella would have wreaked had she been here. He began to get dizzy as they revolved gracefully around the floor, and the warm air pressed in on his face. He began to sweat in the robes which were suddenly tight and he gasped for air. Narcissa looked at him quizzically. Regs felt himself go limp; only her guiding hands were holding him steady.

"Aunt Walburga," he heard her call out from a whirl of colours. A moment later he opened his eyes and was puzzled to find himself on the floor.

"Regulus! Stand up this instant! You shall not rest until I deem your technique acceptable for your first attempt. It would not have been long, but now I have a mind to have you practice a little longer yet…"

Regulus was gasping for breath. "Mama," he whispered. "I can't – see."

"Mother, can't you see he's sick?" Sirius' voice jarred harshly into Regs' suddenly throbbing head.

"Sirr… Sir'us," he slurred, feeling hot all over and prickly. The elaborate ceiling spun over his head again, and again, and again.

"Regs?" His brother's desperate voice sounded in his air. "What's wrong? _Regs_?"

"Out of the way, boy!" His mother's harsh tones were back. "Regulus, sit up."

Regs could not find his arms to brace himself and found himself arching his back instead. Pain lanced through him and he cried out, shivering violently. The sounds of the room swirled around him.

"Very well, I shall send for a Healer. Kreacher!" The resounding _crack_ pierced his brain and he shouted. His eyes felt like they were melting.

"Yes, Mistress?" The deep croak rumbled in Regs' head. He lost the words his mother spoke to the elf in a tumble of pain. Other voices came to him.

"Regs!"

"Leave him, Sirius. If it's contagious, you won't do yourself any favours by catching it too."

"But I've never seen him like that, Andromeda. He's in agony!"

"You know, it looks at awful lot like Alchemist's fever."

"Alchemist's fever? I didn't think it was that bad!"

"It can be." Narcissa's voice this time. "Especially if he was sick with something else first."

"Was he sick, Sirius?"

"I don't… I don't think so."

"Don't think so?"

"I don't know, okay! Will he be alright?"

There was a pause.

"Alchemist's fever isn't usually terribly dangerous." It was Andromeda again. "However, the case can be severe if the person is already unwell, and…"

"_And_?"

"And it can be fatal in certain groups of people. Such as the elderly… or children."

There was another dreadful pause.

Regs started to pant. His chest was tight and the hot air that pressed his face was impossible to extract. There was a deep ache in his bones and he could not stop shivering. Cornish pixies were inside his brain, banging. He couldn't breathe and he thought his eyes were open but everything was black.

Suddenly he was limp and floating. At first he was frightened, thinking he'd somehow started dreaming, but then he realized that Mother was probably levitating him upstairs. He didn't remember the journey, but moments later he was lying on a soft, cool surface and the bone-deep tremor made his teeth rattle. He felt his eyes roll backwards as he arched against a sweeping wave of pain and shrieked again. An instant later he felt a warm hand on his brow, holding him steady as a low soothing voice murmured in his ear. He could make out none of the words but relaxed instantly. The Healer had arrived. He tensed again as another agonizing tremor built but the Healer immobilized him and the pain burst into his head, but he couldn't writhe so he screamed instead. A strangled second of noise burst from him before he was silenced as well. Unable to move or make a sound, and in such torment, it was with the utmost relief that he blacked out.


	6. Chapter 5: The Storm of His Magic

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any associated characters, places and events.

**The Storm of His Magic**

A wave of soft energy flowed over Regs and he shivered. Cracking his eyes open, he was blinded by a lit wand. Blue symbols glowed over his body – a diagnostic spell. His tongue felt swollen and his lips cracked as opened his mouth to speak. No sound emerged.

"I expect you'd like some water," the low voice of the Healer came from his right. Regs tried to agree but couldn't even croak. A cool glass was against his lips and it rattled as his teeth chattered but he swallowed as much of the liquid as he could, feeling it burn like ice down his throat. He sat back exhausted and chanced opening his eyes again. The figure of a middle-aged witch stood over him, having dimmed the lights in the face of his discomfort. Her features came into focus slowly. She gave him a tight little smile.

"There, now, that's better," she said. "Your fever's gone down a bit and the fit stopped after I dosed you into oblivion. Nearly bit your tongue out, though. But never mind that now. Are you in any pain at the moment?"

Regs blinked slowly and tried to feel if he was hurting. He swallowed. "Only my head, a little," he rasped. "I'm a bit dizzy, too."

"Yes, I'd say so," the woman agreed, peering into his eyes. "Not quite focused yet, are you? Not good, not good."

Regs tried to ask what she meant but his energy seemed to have drained away and he felt himself drifting away into sleep again, not hearing a word of what the Healer was saying to him.

He awoke a little later and sat blinking at the ceiling of his room for a few minutes before he remembered what was happening. He turned his head right and saw a figure at his bedside. He opened his mouth to ask for some water, and stopped. Sirius had sat forward, concern etched into his face.

"Regs! How are you feeling?" Words tumbled out of his mouth.

"Water," Regs croaked.

Sirius whipped to the bedside table and poured a glass of water, giving it to Regs who gulped at it eagerly. Finally sated, he slumped back into his bed and yawned.

"So, are you feeling any better?" Sirius was almost painfully anxious.

"Not really," Regs mumbled. Sirius looked worried. He leaned forward.

"I… overheard Mother talking to your Healer." He looked over his shoulder. "I'm not supposed to be in here, but the Healer went back to St. Mungo's to get some more supplies. And anyway, Alchemist's fever isn't contagious."

"How… do you know?" Regs managed to ask.

"Looked it up, didn't I? But I learnt more from eavesdropping. It…" Sirius paused uncertainly. "It doesn't sound good."

"Tell me," Regs tried to demand but it came out more as whisper.

"Well," Sirius paused. "Alchemist's fever comes from magically tainted potions ingredients. So, if you didn't harvest it properly or you combined something wrong or something, I don't know, then you can get sick." Sirius hesitated again.

"Keep going," Regs rasped.

"You're showing all the symptoms. But it can get pretty bad if you're just a kid. Which you are," Sirius trailed off. Regs pinned him with a look, unable to muster any more energy to speak.

"Okay, okay. So there are three stages of the illness. The first is the fever, the headaches and seizures. Then there's a lull, when you look like you're getting better. You're there right now. But the Healer was worried because you seem worse than you should be for the good stage. The third stage is… you get worse again. But it's not just the seizures and all that. There's that, and it's worse than the first time. But there's something else too."  
Regs was beginning to panic now. He glared at Sirius, pleading with his eyes like rain clouds.

"There's some magical…" Sirius screwed up his face. "Fluctuations. That's kind of why it's so bad for old people and kids. The old people have so much magical experience and power that it goes crazy with their magic, drains them and plugs it up and pulls it all out again. But for kids…. See it depends. If you've done accidental magic before, it's not so bad, cos your magic is going crazy anyway. But if you haven't, like you, then there can be problems." Sirius stopped and looked at his hands. He took a deep breath. "You could lose any magic you have at all."

Regs' heart stopped cold. No. No, he couldn't. If he lost his magic, then he would be a squib, and Mother would disown him. His power, as yet unconfirmed except for the little bit he'd managed in the potions lab, was the cornerstone of his entire world. He would be nothing without it.

"Regs, please," Sirius begged. "Don't panic. You'll only make it worse. The thing is, there aren't very many kids who get it because they haven't been around potions ingredients that much, so they don't really know what will happen."

Before Regs' could respond, the door opened and a cross voice penetrated the room.

"My patient is not to be disturbed! Out!"

Sirius shot a desperate look at Regs and scrambled away. Regs stared blankly at the wall as the Healer jabbered at his side, preparing doses and who knew what else. He opened his mouth obediently when she gave him a vial and swallowed the bitter liquid. At once drowsiness swamped him and he sank almost mindlessly into the depths.

Regs woke screaming, the next time he rose out of his drugged slumber. He felt his limbs thrashing out of his control, and the pain was so bad that he felt he would burn up from the inside out. Hot and cold flashed over his body so rapidly that he barely had time to shiver before his face felt like it was melting. He screamed for so long and so hard that his voice snapped and broke and when he screamed after that, no sound came from his mouth. Doors banged and running footsteps pounded into his skull. Hands held him down and he was immobilized again to prevent him from hurting himself. But the pain never stopped. Regs struggled to keep his mind open to his surroundings to hear what was happening, and how bad the situation was. Snatches of conversation came to him.

"Never seen a case this bad, so young… I can't put him out for this, he's so weak from the first time… he might never wake up… hard to say at this point… won't know until he recovers… mild pain reliever… can't let him drift off again…"

A cold, bitter thing pushed against his lip but it was all he could do not to vomit until he saw stars without trying to swallow something. Finally it was taken away and he felt it being spelled directly into his stomach. Cold spread out from the area and he began to shake violently, despite the body bind. He heard cursing.

"Regulus, that was a pain reliever but it won't stop the convulsions. I need you to stay awake with me now. Regulus? Can you hear me?"

Regs tried to nod, choke out an answer, anything. He wasn't sure if he succeeded, but the voice didn't ask him again. He was certain he would be sick.

Regs didn't know how long he'd been lying there in a blazing cocoon of pain, drifting in and out of awareness, regardless of the Healer's orders to stay awake. He thought, as much as he was able to think, that that probably wasn't a good thing. But something was changing now. He still felt stiff in the body bind but there was a growing wave of energy somewhere deep inside him. A weary voice began to speak.

"It's starting. This is the critical stage. His magic is about to go haywire. Best to keep a shield up."

"What can you do for him to keep his power?" That was Mother's voice. She was here to look after him! He realized the bind had been removed and tried to turn his head towards the sound.

"There isn't much we can do. It will build up and explode out of him, then drain all away and start again. If he's strong enough, his body will fight the sickness and by the time it stops, his magic will have stabilized. If he isn't… then by the time the oscillations cease, he'll be at a low point and be left with either limited power, or in the very worst case, none at all."

"Do what you can." The order was terse and then Regs heard his mother leave the room.

"No…" he moaned, feeling his arms tremble as the terrible pressure inside him got tighter and tighter. It was unbearable. He _must_ burst with it and there'd be pieces of him all over the room – blood everywhere, like the house elf –

The huge wad of power snapped and he felt it rush out of him like jumping off a cliff. A roaring wind sounded in his ears and he managed to open his eyes as he panted to see a storm in his bedroom. Parchment and papers were flying in all directions, the windows were rattling and the bed was shaking. The Healer had her wand out, bracing herself against his bed and holding the whirlwind at bay with a shimmering blue shield. With her other hand, she was holding a damp cloth that she wiped over Regs' sweaty face. Seeing him awake, she leaned forward to talk to him.

"Don't be afraid, it's just your magic having a good time." The words were almost shouted above the turmoil. Regs couldn't believe that this Healer was trying to tell him there was nothing to worry about; he'd _heard_ them. But before he could even attempt to croak out a reply, the wind streamed together and flew right back into Regs' chest. For a single glorious moment he was filled to the brim with power and he opened his mouth to laugh, but like a house elf disapparating, it was sucked away somewhere and drained out until he was left with nothing at all. The absence of this intrinsic power that he'd never really known he had was even more unbearable than the pressure before. He felt like every drop of water and air in his body had been removed and for a long, terrible second his mouth was gaping, eyes wide and unable to breathe. He felt his vision going dark.

"Oh, no you don't," the Healer growled and she stuck her wand almost inside Regs' mouth. He felt his throat open and sucked in oxygen greedily, gasping for dear life. He wanted to black out, so he didn't have to feel the awful cavernous hollow inside him where his magic was supposed to be. His head tipped sideways and he almost faded out when the Healer spoke again.

"Regulus Black, if you go to sleep now, your magic will do that again, and if you aren't awake to recognise that you can still breathe, you might lose it forever, do y'hear me? You have to fight this, because I can't do it for you."

Regs opened his eyes again, feeling utterly miserable and swamped by pain again, now that he could think past the storm of his magic. He was so _hot_. He was rewarded by the Healer's smile.

"There's a good lad. See that light there?" She was pointing to a little blue orb floating above the end of his bed. "That will go red when your magic starts building again, so you can be prepared for the backlash." Regs tried to nod.

There was about five minutes of peace before the light flashed red. The witch was at his side instantly, the damp cloth in hand again.

"It'll be alright," she crooned. "Just stay strong and you'll be fine." Regs would have rolled his eyes if he hadn't been trembling with the exertion of the power swelling again, filling every inch of space in his body. He felt like he was inflating. His skin was going to split, his eyes would burst and ribs crack. He howled as the pressure shoved up and up and his nose began to bleed. The cloth wiped it away and his eyes snapped open, screaming as the magic thundered out again, more violent than before. The Healer shielded herself above him, flinching as small bolts of lightning crashed out around the room. The windows broke this time. The door burst open and wind roared out. Debris was everywhere. Regs couldn't control it. He shook with the force of it, dreading the reversal. A moment later it came. With a furious screech, everything was sucked back into Regs and he felt more powerful than anyone in the entire _world_ –

A snapping noise and a cry that Regs realized was himself sounded loud in the suddenly quiet room. His chest had collapsed in on itself. A rib, he thought through a haze of agony. He'd broken a rib. He felt terribly empty and didn't even have the strength to draw breath.

"Come on, lad, breathe." The Healer forced his mouth open and he felt the rib grating as his lungs inflated. A strangled noise of pain emerged.

"I know, I know, it hurts. Let me get you breathing normally and then I'll fix that rib." Her voice was soothing now.

Regs could only pant shallowly as the torture of breathing nearly overcame him. A little trickle of Skele-Gro dribbled into his mouth and he gagged but got it down. As the witch began to repair the windows and clean up the room, he felt a little itch in his ribs and groaned with the intolerable irritation. He relaxed at last. The absence of his magic was like a missing tooth. Regs turned his eyes to the floating orb above his feet and willed it to stay blue so he didn't have to go through that again. Then he remembered what he'd heard and wished it would go red again so he could get his magic back. If he was too weak for it to return after these terrible bouts then he would simply get well again and not have any power at all. Regs was terrified. _Please let it come back. Please, let it come back!_

Once the room was tidied, the Healer came back to the bed. She cast a diagnostic spell and frowned as the blue symbols flickered above the bed. She flicked her wand and they disappeared.

"Regulus, I'm worried by your condition. It's taking rather a long time for your magic to replenish itself after the episodes, and I've never seen them so violent in someone so young. I wouldn't have said anything, but… I suppose you should be prepared for the worst."  
Regs' teeth chattered. He began to shake his head furiously. "No, no, no, no…" he mumbled. He started hyperventilating.

"Regulus! Calm down. There is still time, but you have to be strong."

Regs tried to slow his breathing. He was so very cold. His head whipped up at the red glow that had appeared in the air.

"Oh no," the Healer breathed. She gave Regs an inscrutable look. "They get more intense the longer you're ill. I figured that last one would be it…" Her voice trailed off. "I'm not sure that you'll…" She shook her head fiercely. "Right. I'm going to seal the door and shield the whole bed. Maybe I can contain it this time."

Regs whimpered as everything went tight again, pushing up and out and away. His eyes were forced shut and he felt his newly mended rib creak. More and more energy poured into his core until he was bloated with it. His nose was bleeding furiously and waves and waves of the magic burned through him until he leant over and vomited beside the bed. He could feel the hairs on his head and arms standing out straight and crackling with power. Regs was gasping as he opened his eyes again and saw the blue shield not around the Healer, but around him. He screamed as the wave of magic tore out of him, bursting blood vessels in his eyes. The storm roared against the blue shield and Regs saw the Healer's face go grey with the strain of keeping it contained. The bedclothes whipped and flapped and the pillows exploded in showers of feathers. In the centre of the gale, Regs shivered, blood dripping down his front. The wood of the bed frame began to rattle on the floor. Just when Regs thought that perhaps the storm was about to die down and had braced himself for its reversal, it exploded out and the shield dropped instantly, the witch collapsing to the floor unconscious. The windows shattered again and the glass shards sang as they sliced the air in the shrieking wind. The door burst completely off its hinges, and tumbled outwards over the head of a ducking Sirius, expression appalled –

"No!" screamed Regs as the glass and books and quills, having smashed up as much of the room as they could, exploded out again, through the windows and the door, flinging deadly fragments of the wreckage straight at his brother. Regs shut his eyes tightly, unable to watch Sirius' horrific injury, waiting for the screams…

But he had to look. There was a split second of frozen time, where the deadly shards were all headed to the door and Sirius was untouched, looking at him through the mess with sympathy and determination, then Regs hardened his resolve, wished with all his heart that his brother would not be hurt and said "No."

Every speck of the rubble in his room started to withdraw, gathering speed as it flew back towards Regs on the tide of energy that Regs was pulling back to himself _on his own_. This was not the reversal; this was Regs protecting his brother. The glass and paper and wood sliced back towards him all at once and the wind stopped abruptly. Regs could hear Sirius make a noise of horror, but the effort was too taxing and he couldn't hold his head up any more. The world went blacker than midnight, as he'd longed it to since he'd woken up.

Sirius stared in shock at his little brother, crumpled on the bed. He was covered in blood and vomit with the remains of his room in a large circle around him on the floor. They had not touched him. The Healer was unconscious amongst the rubble, a few shallow slices on her arms and face. He looked at himself, completely unhurt, seconds after he'd been sure that he would be cut to ribbons.

"Oh, Regs," he said miserably. "This is all my fault."


	7. Chapter 6: The Darkness of His Anger

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any associated characters, places and events.

**The Darkness of His Anger**

Regs sneezed.

He opened his eyes slowly, feeling far more like himself. For a moment all he could see was sunlight, streaming in through the window, then his eyes adjusted and he could see everything.

There were feathers on his bed, stuck to some red paint. One was tickling his face. He swiped under his nose and felt it come away wet. His nose was bleeding. With new eyes he looked down at his front and saw the blood for what it was. The dust motes swam in the sunlight in front of his face as he paused, confused, then remembered what had happened with a shock.

He looked around quickly, and found the Healer on a chair next to his bed, eyes closed and in some kind of trance. As he watched, her wand traced out intricate patterns and he felt a little _whoosh_ as a wave of energy rushed over him. _Diagnostic spell._

The Healer's eyes popped open and she began scribbling furiously on a piece of parchment. Regs noticed some cuts on her face and arms and wondered why she hadn't healed them. She looked up and noticed he was awake.

"Oh, good, you're in the land of the living." The woman's slightly lined face was crinkled with relief. She began to flick her wand at him, healing his nose and the burst blood vessels in his eyes. "You haven't been out long, but your fever has broken, and you look a lot better. How are you feeling?"

Regs cleared his throat. "I feel better."

"Excellent." The woman looked down at her parchment. "The good news is that your magic is fine. In fact you seem to have increased your power reserves. I didn't know that could happen. But then, this is a fairly rare case."

Regs' relief was so acute that he could feel the blood throbbing in all of his extremities.

"Is there bad news?" he asked anxiously.

"Well, not really, unless you count the destruction of your property and two near misses." The witch traced the cuts on her arms with her wand ruefully, sealing them instantly. "Your brother was in here just after that last episode. He should have been sliced to pieces, but not a scratch on him. You knocked me out for a minute though."

"I'm sorry," Regs mumbled, blushing.

"Not to worry, my boy, goes with the job." The Healer busied herself with clearing the mess around his bed. A few non-verbal spells later, the pillows had been restuffed and resealed, the windows were whole again, the bodily fluids had been vanished and most of Regs' possessions had been restored to their former state. "Right. I'll leave a few pain-relievers with you in case of lingering headaches; don't be afraid to use them. This purple one is for the last of your fever – take it before you go to sleep tonight. Keep away from aconite, Doxy venom and bowtruckle droppings for a week to prevent infection. I'll just go see your mother on the way out. Stay well."

"Thank you, ma'am," Regs said, gratefully. "Truly."

The woman smiled at him. "You're most welcome, Mister Black."

She left and Regs could hear her walking down the stairs. Soft pattering met his ears.

"Regs?"

"Sirius!" Regs said joyfully. "Are you alright?"

Sirius raised an eyebrow incredulously. "Am _I_ alright? Of course I am! What about _you_?"

Regs was amused. "I'm feeling much better, thank you. However, the last time I saw you, I thought you were going to get very badly hurt."

Sirius shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah, well," he mumbled. "So did I."  
"Then why were you here?" Regs asked, puzzled.

"Heard you screaming, and things smashing," his brother replied. "It sounded terrible."  
Regs was aghast. "But I could have hurt you!"  
"Yeah, but you didn't!" Sirius said firmly. "Anyway, I would have deserved it," he added quietly. Regs wasn't sure he was supposed to have heard that.

"Excuse me?" he said.

Sirius looked up, guilt swimming in his eyes. "It was my fault you got sick."

Regs couldn't believe what he was hearing. Sirius' fault? But… that didn't make sense. "What do you mean?" he asked quietly. Sirius looked miserable.

"If that glass had hit me, I would have deserved it, because it was my fault that you were sick!" Sirius repeated wretchedly. He wouldn't meet Regs' eyes.

Regs stared at him. He had been ill with Alchemist's fever, which was caused by the tainting of magical potions ingredients. If they had been harvested under the wrong conditions with the _intent_ for its proper use, then the power invested in the production or collection was tainted. Mixing ingredients wrongly in a potion was easy to do and could cause explosions, or make messes, but wasn't essentially dangerous unless you got in the way, consumed it or breathed it in. That's why students at school never harvested ingredients for their own potions. Any harvesting done in Care of Magical Creatures or Herbology was carefully checked by the teachers before being allowed to use them in the potions lab. That harvesting was not done intentionally for Potions ingredients, so there was never a problem.

In order to have been sick with it, Regs must have made a mistake. But his supervisor had said nothing and surely he'd have ranted in his slight French accent; he didn't tolerate mistakes. There was too much that could go wrong. So someone must have tampered with his work. And now, here was Sirius admitting to causing his illness.

What on earth would have possessed Sirius to do such a thing? Regs was terribly hurt. Sirius had been trying to injure him. Why else would he have done such a thing? But then, why was he admitting to it now? That didn't make any sense.

Then it came to Regs in a moment of glorious clarity and he felt his anger burning. Sirius had been wanting to show Regs up. Regs, always so 'perfect' compared to Sirius in Mother's eyes, had made a mistake in his hobby class. Sirius had not. He had only wanted Regs to look bad but now he was feeling guilty because Regs had been far more seriously ill than Sirius had intended. Regs felt his heart shatter. He could not believe it.

"How – could you?" he choked out. Sirius looked up like a scared rabbit. "How _could_ you?"

"Regs, I - " Sirius said desperately. "I didn't mean it!"

"_Didn't mean it_? I could have died! Or lost my magic!" Regs was hissing in utter fury.

"It was an accident!" Sirius yelped. He was terrified.

"How can it have been an accident? What matters is your intent! How do you explain that?" Regs growled. He could feel his face heating.

"I – I don't - " Sirius trailed off helplessly. "I didn't mean - "

"_Shut up_!" Regs didn't want to hear any more. "I – trusted you. And you could have killed me." He shook his head in disbelief. "I know how hard Mother is on you, but her favour is more important than my life? I would _never_ have thought it of you." He was broken inside.

Sirius wore an expression of horrified confusion. "No! That's not – I didn't – Regs!" But Regs wasn't listening. He shut his eyes and shook his head. His ears were roaring.

"REGS!"

The shout broke through and he glared at his brother in undisguised loathing. Sirius recoiled.

"I think you've got it wrong," Sirius said hesitantly. "I didn't make you sick out of jealousy – I would _never_ do that!"  
Regs raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Oh, yeah? So you didn't go and tamper with my work to make me look bad?"  
Sirius was horror-struck. "_No_! Of course not!"  
Regs felt his thrumming heart slow a little. The world looked a little less black – his lips twisted with a spurt of dark humour. The action he had believed of Sirius was something he'd expect of a scheming Black family member – but Sirius was a little too kind-hearted and hot-headed for such things.

"Then explain what you mean and don't make me think such terrible things of you," he demanded.

Sirius swallowed. "Andromeda said that Alchemist's fever is usually pretty mild – yours was a really bad case. And she said that it can be made a lot worse than it should be if the person is already sick." He took a deep breath. "I was out doing Astronomy the other night and it was cold. I stayed out a bit too late and the next day, well, I was feeling unwell. I didn't want to go to Mother for a Pepper-Up because I knew she'd just tell me it was my own fault. I wanted to save myself that humiliation." Sirius face was bitter. "Then we were sharing that plate of cakes and then – then after the house elf - "

Regs understood. They had been rather close after witnessing its death and even if Sirius was embarrassed to admit it, Regs knew they'd both needed the close contact that day.

"So you think you were responsible for how bad the fever was," he said slowly. "I didn't think I was unwell before, though."

"You – you had a little cough," Sirius said brokenly. "That day we were dancing."

Regs looked at him sharply. "That day we were dancing? You make it sound like it was ages ago."

Sirius looked at him. "Well, it was a week ago."

"A _week_?" Regs gasped. "No way."

Sirius gave him a wavering smile. "Yes, way. You were out of it for _ages_ between the bad bits. I still had to have lessons though."

Regs puffed out a laugh. "Well, I haven't been having a picnic." He shuddered. "_Merlin_, it was _awful_."

"I am sorry," Sirius said, grimacing. Regs waved his hand to brush it away.

"No, you couldn't have known. I'm sorry I thought – I thought – that you'd do that." He was quiet for a moment, then frowned. "But then, how _did_ I get sick? Professor Morten would have ripped into me if I made a mistake."

Sirius frowned as well. "I don't know, Regs. I don't know."

Despite being confined to bed rest for another week, Mother had decided that Regs was well enough to resume his studies. So for several long hours a day, she sat sternly at his bedside, lecturing him on the glorious smiting of goblins in years gone past, their notable attempts at retaliation, the refusal of wizards to share wandlore – quite rightly too – and the eventual uneasy peace. Wizards, unable to eradicate the threat entirely, had tired of the bloodshed and feared for their dwindling numbers, settling instead for a bitter stalemate. Regs wondered if perhaps the wizards had commanded a more numerous force, then the secrets of goblin-smithing might have been theirs centuries ago. He proposed the question to Mother.

"Without a doubt," she snorted, turning her fierce expression onto her youngest son. "Goblins are thick-skinned, nasty beasts that will look for a loophole in any agreement. As loathe as we are to admit it, they had the upper hand for many years, at least in terms of force and numbers. They were very unwilling to sign a peace treaty – as they ought to have been! Their ancient power has become well-weakened since that glorious bloody age. Wizards had the more powerful magic – and they knew it! Weapons do little against shields and energy bolts. They are merely difficult to kill, and their numerical advantage served them well. With a little more fire power and a few more decades we could have squashed them underfoot like the vermin they are. Dirty, filthy invaders. There is no place for them in a pure wizarding society – just like mudbloods! Diluting, taking; always taking what they have not earned. And it is we, the pure ones, descending from the ancient families, that suffer the loss! Always remember, boy, the pride we have in our nobility – it is what separates us from the common filth on the streets. I don't doubt that any day now they will start breeding with goblins and then the might and power of witches and wizards would be no greater than house elves." She spat. "Goblins serve us well in banking; they are fit to do little more than handle our money, but touch none of it, though I little trust them with it. You must be thorough when dealing with goblins. They are decently impartial between wizard factions, but if you do not watch what you sign, they'll have their greedy paws on anything they can get – between their own race and our superior one, they'll serve themselves first, every time."

Regs absorbed the rant eagerly. Mother knew ever so much about every part of wizard society. These anecdotes were terribly interesting and informative. But his thoughts were interrupted.

"Now, Regulus, you will study some more Transfiguration. The theory is difficult, and I won't have you falling behind your classmates. You must be ready come time for your Hogwarts education. Merlin forbid that you appear as dimwitted as muggle-spawn."

Obediently, he turned to the thick tome of transform lore and began to read.

"Would Master like some refreshments?" The deep croak of Kreacher startled Regs out of his thoughts as he sat daydreaming in his huge, soft bed.

"That would be wonderful," beamed Regs. He missed Rinty's bumbling mannerisms, but Kreacher was far more competent. He had been feeling bored and peckish, so Kreacher also had impeccable timing. "Maybe some cold meat and a glass of pumpkin juice?"

Kreacher bowed and _cracked_ out. Regs had just settled himself up comfortably and plumped up the repaired feather pillow at his back when Kreacher reappeared, expertly offering a silver platter embossed with the Black crest to Regs. Regs was delighted. He took the platter and selected a choice morsel. Taking a bite, he felt his eyes roll skyward in bliss. Kreacher stepped backwards, presumably to disapparate away again. Regs held up a hand. He finished chewing with his eyes closed, then took a swig of his drink. Sighing in contentment, he opened his eyes again to see Kreacher standing to attention at his side.

"Was there something else Kreacher can do for Master?" the elf inquired.

"Mm," Regs said, still absorbed in the delight of his snack. "Um, thanks, Kreacher. For the food. It was very fast," he added as an afterthought.

"Master is too kind to Kreacher," the bullfrog voice replied to his toes as he bowed once again. He looked up to see if he was further required. Regs looked at him, pondering.

"Kreacher, maybe you can help me."

The house elf looked pleased to be of further assistance. "Master Regulus has only to command Kreacher."

"Well, you know I've been unwell this last week. It was Alchemist's fever." He looked at the servant. "Do you know what it is? How you get it?"

The elf bobbed his head. "Kreacher knows. House elves must be knowing how to care for their family."

"Well," Regs replied eagerly. "Maybe you can find out how I got it. Because my potions professor would have noticed if I made a mistake."

Kreacher looked interested. "An investigation, Master?"

"Yes," Regs replied. He thought for another moment. "I don't know how you would find out though. I don't how to tell if ingredients have been tampered with."

Kreache bowed again. "If Master would permit Kreacher to ask a question?"

"Of course!" Regs stumbled over the words in his haste to get them out. He was terribly eager to determine who had poisoned him. Had Bella managed to reach that far? Was she trying to drive Sirius apart from him?

"Does Master know what sort of tampering may occur?"

Regs frowned at the question. "Um, from what Professor Morton has told me, it would be if someone changed them – as in, cut them, crushed them or pickled them – that sort of thing – without the intent to use them as ingredients. It's hard to explain, see? You have to harvest them – or use them – with the intent for harvesting when you invest magic into the process…" he trailed off. Why was this so hard? He screwed up his face. "Anyway, if someone other than me or my teacher has done anything with them at all, something might have happened to them."

Kreacher had frozen. Regs looked at him in askance. "Kreacher?"

"Mistress Black commanded Kreacher to fetch some powered asp bones from the potions store for a potion of her creation," the house elf wavered. He bowed again and again, sounding terrified. "Kreacher has moved the potions ingredients."

Regs was delighted. Mother had liked his ingredient preparation well enough to use them herself! He brought his mind back to the present.

"But Kreacher, you didn't change them though, did you?" Regs persisted, perplexed. "They were already ground into powder; you couldn't have done anything! Do you know if you were the only one who touched them?"

"Kreacher was the only one, Master Regulus," the elf croaked to his toes. He hesitated, eyes darting to the heavy ornate jug in the corner of Regs' room that Mother had had put there for decoration. Regs knew he was contemplating his punishment. "Kreacher spilt some of the powder and cleaned it up. Kreacher boiled his feet for his clumsiness."

"Kreacher, I don't think - " Regs began. Suddenly he stopped. He closed his eyes. He remembered a book on harvesting that he'd read, set by Professor Morten as homework. '_Sometimes, magical creatures may interfere with the process of harvesting if they use their personal magic in conjunction with ingredient investment. This is why harvesting of ingredients from live magical creatures carries so many dangers. Wand-makers are scarce partly for this reason; the magic of a unicorn may cause great damage and interference in the instance that the wizard attempts to pluck a tail hair without proper precaution…'_

Could Kreacher have tainted the ingredients just by cleaning up the powder? Regs didn't care that the elf had hurt him; he was happy just to know exactly how it had happened so that it didn't happen again. It was obviously an accident. He would be extremely pleased to know that Bella had not done such a horrible thing as he'd thought. Perhaps he was becoming paranoid, imagining plots and ploys where none existed. But, he thought darkly, with his family, you never knew… Best to be prepared. It was good practice for the real world anyway. There would be people out there with less wealth and prosperity than Regs and they may try to hurt him for it. Kreacher was blameless of any wrongdoing. He was more innocent than some people Regs knew!

"Kreacher, did you use magic to clean up the spill?" Regs asked as gently as he could. He just wanted to be sure.

Tremblingly, the elf nodded. "Did Kreacher cause Master Regulus' illness?" He quavered, eyes bright with self-horror. Regs hesitated, unwilling to tell the elf, but Kreacher didn't wait for an answer; he could see it in Regs' eyes.

In less than a second, he was smashing himself over the head with the silver jug, arms pulling it to himself again and again, grunting with the effort and pain.

"Bad Kreacher, _bad_ Kreacher. Master Regulus might have died. Oh, Kreacher is so wicked. If he had killed Mistress' son…" He began to weep, deep sobs tearing from his chest. "Kreacher doesn't deserve to serve his family." Terrible bruises began to appear on his face. Regs was horrified.

"Kreacher! Don't! Oh, _don't_! Don't do that! Please, Kreacher! _Don't move_!"

The house elf froze stiff, arms trembling with the weight of the jug. He was panting heavily, tears still falling down his face. Without moving – as he had been told – the jug lifted out of his grasp and began to pound down on his head again. He was levitating it. Regs was wide-eyed with shock and dread.

"No! Kreacher, no! I – I forbid you to hurt yourself." The jug stopped. "I – wait, Mother can override that. Kreacher, I forbid you to hurt yourself because of any guilt you feel over my illness." He thought hard. "I forbid you from telling anyone else anything about this or that you were responsible. I know you didn't mean it. It was an _accident_. I don't want you to harm yourself because of an accident, okay?" He looked at the elf sharply. "Oh, sorry, Kreacher. You can move; please, move."

The house elf dropped the jug miserably. He looked at it longingly.

"Kreacher, I don't blame you for it, and I don't want you to blame yourself either." Kreacher just looked at him in surprise. "Yes, I didn't order you not to feel guilty, because – well, I can't tell you how to feel."

Kreacher began to bow again. "Master is the very kindest of Masters. Kreacher does not deserve his leniency or kindness. Kreacher deserves to be punished." Kreacher croaked wretchedly.

Regs shook his head fiercely. "No, you don't. But, I suppose I'd better release you from the order not to hurt yourself in general – Mother might get suspicious if you don't punish yourself for anything else. But you are _not_ to hurt yourself for this, for hurting me, do you understand me?" he said sternly. Kreacher nodded. "Now, one last thing. I want you to heal yourself, or cover up those bruises at least. No one should see them; they might ask questions." Somehow Regs doubted that; no one took any notice of a house elf, but he couldn't take the chance.

"Thank you, Master," Kreacher said, bowing low yet again. "Kreacher does not deserve -"

"Nonsense," Regs pushed. "Now, off you go." He waited until Kreacher had disapparated before slumping back on his pillows. He sighed. Merlin, that poor elf! Tormented by his mistakes and obliged to hurt himself for a mere accident! Regs' musing was interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Come in," he called, sitting up again. Sirius walked in, and Regs recoiled. Sirius was angry. _Very_ angry.

"What – what's wrong?" Regs asked, somewhat nervously.

"Did I hear that right?" Sirius growled, his hands curling into fists. "That _elf_ is responsible for making you sick?"

"No, Sirius, it was an accident!" Regs protested. "He didn't mean to hurt me."

"If he had, he'd be gone before you could blink," Sirius said, face thunderous. He stood straight, an avenging angel with snapping eyes of grey, going dark in his anger. His handsome face was shadowed with fury, but Regs just stared at him. There was something in Sirius' expression, something which did not frighten Regs, but made him proud. There was a man under this anger, an adult spirit beneath the fool that Sirius played. A righteous rage; something beautiful in its power. Sirius was suddenly an ancient soul before him, radiating an anger beyond anything Regs knew. It was an old feeling that he was giving off, a hatred that was born of love and so all the more bitter for it.

"I see you," Regs whispered, awed.

"What?" Sirius frowned at him, still terribly angry, and the moment was lost.

"Never mind," Regs said hastily. "But it wasn't Kreacher's fault, so he shouldn't hurt himself. You accidentally made the fever worse than it should have been, didn't you?" Regs regretted using this argument as soon as Sirius flinched, but still shaken by what he had seen in his brother, he continued hurriedly. "I don't blame you, so why should I blame him?"

"He's not a person!" Sirius snarled. "You're too soft on them. They're not _pets_."

"I know that," Regs said, stung. "They're far more than that. But they serve us and so we are responsible for them. He already hates himself enough for it. Don't make it worse. _Please_, Sirius!"

Sirius looked at him for a long moment, and Regs caught a flash of what he'd seen before, passing though his brother's eyes; ancient, ancient eyes. Then Sirius sighed and nodded.

"All right," he conceded, a dark frown still marring his face. Regs could not help but think that despite the power that Sirius brought out in his anger, it was a face born for laughter. "But if he does anything else to you ever again…"

"Sirius, I love you, but you're a bit overprotective sometimes," Regs protested, blushing when he realized what he'd said. Sirius' face went a little red but something went light in his expression.

"Don't you think I'm justified when something like this happens?" he responded hotly.

Regs just laughed. "Sirius, you can't protect me from myself."


	8. Chapter 7: The Dance of His Worth

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any associated characters, places and events.

A/N: Here, they are a little older; I want to age my characters a little, but nothing important will be missed. If you like it, please review.

**The Dance of His Worth**

Regs shifted uncomfortably in the hot black robes. They were very heavy and stiff and lined with silver piping. They even had silver shoulder pads and real silver clasps and decorative buttons. An appropriately green set of his initials was embroidered on his breast. He stilled himself quickly, hoping mother hadn't seen. He was a Black. He had to appear the upper class that he was. He was bred to be perfectly at home in this sort of setting…

Regs resisted the urge to scratch at his shoulders.

Sirius was having greater trouble by the looks of things. He was hunched wretchedly, the heavy silver of his elaborate shoulder pads making standing straight almost an impossibility. Regs saw the ugly snarl brewing on Father's face and hurried to Sirius' side.

"Just think of something relaxing, Sirius," he whispered hurriedly. "If you don't think about it, it hardly hurts. And if you're relaxed you won't bend so much. Quickly, or Father will kill you."

Sirius turned a nasty look on Regs but Regs kept his pleading expression on full blast, looking at his brother beseechingly. Finally Sirius nodded and closed his eyes.

"What's relaxing?" he muttered distractingly.

"What do think about when you go to sleep?" Regs asked, watching Sirius carefully. There were lines of misery bracketing his mouth. He glanced up. Father's eyes were sharp and hard. Regs knew better than to smile at him winsomely as Sirius might have done, to little success. Instead he stood straighter, tipped his head in a tiny bow and returned to Sirius to encourage him to do the same.

"I don't think of anything in particular," Sirius mumbled in reply, shoulders still drooping in dejection. "I'm usually tired from Astronomy."

"Well, what about star gazing?" Regs asked, a touch desperately. "Does that relax you?"

"Yeah," Sirius said, a little more brightly. His eyes were still closed. "Looking at the family names. However far I go, they'll always be there with me. My name, the brightest star; a bright blue. Sirius in the Black, I always think. Then Orion's belt – Father's belt – I've felt it often enough, but it lines up nicely in the sky. And Andromeda, and Great Aunt Cassiopeia and Grandfather Pollux and Grandfather Arcturus." Here Sirius paused and Regs could see a tiny frown come over his face at the knowledge that their grandfathers had been cousins before he hurried on. "And Uncle Cygnus. And," Sirius said, opening his eyes, the grey of a calm day at sea, and turning to Regs. "The little Regulus star. I know exactly where to find it in the sky; I always will." He gave a little smile to Regs, who smiled back at him, noticing how the lines around his brother's mouth had softened and his back had lifted. Then Sirius looked past him and his expression stiffened. His spine automatically straightened and he bent his head a little. Regs turned to see Father's eyes boring into his. He swallowed, trying not to flinch. Father spoke to him only rarely, spending most of his free time with Sirius, closeted in Father's study to teach him how to run the family. Sometimes Regs felt like the surplus of the family, and tried to make up for it by doing well in his studies, but most of the time it just came naturally to him. Like Potions, he thought with pride, feeling his chest swell a little at the thought. He was shocked when Father nodded once back at him, almost imperceptibly, and turned away. Regs looked back up at Sirius and saw a slightly bitter, but resigned and understanding expression shadowed on his face, under his eyes and in the tightness of his mouth. But there was something a little softer there when he looked at Regs, and he smiled again, albeit with a little less enthusiasm than before.

"Come on, little prince," he said. "Let's go do our duty."

They walked together without speaking to Mother's side over the polished hallway floor where she was waiting for Father to beckon them over. She glanced down at them almost carelessly, and when she found nothing immediately wanting, she didn't spend a moment more looking away from the gilt decorated doors to the Ministry ballroom. The function was the annual celebration of charity donations to St. Mungo's, where the Noble families tried to out-donate each other and everyone dressed up terribly formally and ate fifty courses, drank champagne and danced the old dances. It was the greatest social occasion of the upper class calendar, and Regs was certain that Mother would keep an eye out for the richest and prettiest noble girls with which to negotiate an arrangement for Sirius. Regs snorted inwardly. Yes, the richest and prettiest – in that order.

Finally, Father beckoned them over, having decided that the room was sufficiently full to make an entrance without being too late – fashionably late was acceptable of course. He held his arm out to Mother who took it and was held at a respectable distance. Sirius stood behind them, looking decidedly depressed. Regs stood two steps behind him. He felt sorry for Sirius, knowing he would have to shine tonight as the pureblood heir to one of the most fashionable and noble houses at the event, something he would fail miserably at. He leaned towards Sirius' ear.

"Just think of the stars," he whispered. There was a nod, and Sirius straightened again. They walked in, proud and pureblood. Heads turned, assessing gazes swept them from every angle and Regs lifted his chin despite the fact that he knew he was the least looked upon in his family. People might compare Sirius to him to see whether the Black heir was as good a son as Regs, but in the end, all of them knew who really mattered and whose influence was more powerful. Because Sirius was just a touch too bold and reckless for a decent Slytherin family, Regs was always the standard for comparison. He would have been kindhearted enough to downplay his own successes in order to make Sirius look better, but his own achievements were the only the thing he had of his own. Without his knowledge, ability and triumphs, he would only be the faceless, unknown, unnoticed and nameless second Black son. He would be nothing. And his Slytherin pride would not let that slide.

Not to mention that he would truly be letting down the family name if the public thought that bad blood had bred two worthless sons of a Noble house – not that Sirius was worthless – just different. Regs simply couldn't do that to Mother, let alone himself, especially seeing as he could do something about it. But the thing was, Sirius was not stupid. He knew all of this, as much as Regs did. And he knew Regs – Sirius knew that Regs had made that decision, weighing in all the factors. That meant that Regs valued his family name and self-worth more than Sirius' name and reputation. And so, Sirius was understanding and kind enough to not only accept that, but to forgive Regs for it. And that was something Regs could never forget.

If Bellatrix had been his sister (he laughed inwardly with a twisted glee at Sirius' reaction to that thought) then things would have been different. Regs would have done his very best to spite her and she would always hate him for what he did and do her very best to always do better than him. And Regs would not love her the way he loved Sirius. This was the family life of most Slytherin families. There was little love lost, many quarrels and a hell of a lot of scheming to stay ahead of one another. This in turn led to the need to be Slytherin – the definition of Slytherin – which bred the families with little love, and the whole thing just went round in circles. Regs knew there was much more to Slytherin values than being 'dark' and devious. It was about valuing different things to those who were brave and reckless and thought their lives were equal payment to the reward gained by risking their lives. The potential of dying was just too high a price to pay to a true Slytherin mind. If you couldn't gain it by fair methods, such as monetary payment or by debt, than they would rather gain it by trickery or subterfuge – it just wasn't worth dying over. Sure, sometimes that meant you had to steal to get it – but the loss of one person was better than the death of another person – especially if that person was you. And in the most extreme cases what the other person lost was their life – but again, better than yourself. It was about survival, and if that had translated into their everyday life, then so what? It worked, didn't it? Too bad if other people didn't like it. The world could be a harsh place. That was why Slytherin existed.

But it just wasn't in Sirius' nature to be sly and malicious. Regs feared for his brother if Sirius didn't see things clearly soon. In a few years he would be at Hogwarts and then he would be surrounded by people who wouldn't have the family ties like Bellatrix to temper their actions towards him. Regs did shudder to think what Bella would do to Sirius if they hadn't been related. He loved his brother – more so because he wasn't as Slytherin as he might be – and would like to protect him as much as Sirius did him. But he knew Sirius was more open about it than he should be; Regs could foresee that he would be a target to Sirius' tormentors once he got to school himself because Sirius made no secret of his love for Regs.

Regs also knew that one day, because of Sirius' differences to him – which again, was the very reason Regs loved him so much – Regs might be forced to choose between his brother and his own values. If he was very lucky, the choice wouldn't be so severe that either his life or Sirius' life hung in the balance. He knew, deep in his heart, that it would be the most difficult decision of his life. And he knew, without a doubt, that it was a decision he would only be able to make once. And it might kill him.

Regs was shaken out of his thoughts by a wicked nudge from Mother, whom he looked up at impassively. He could not show emotion here, now, in any negative way to his family. He nodded to her to convey his apology, and then went, as Sirius had said, to do his duty. There would be a small amount of mingling before dinner started, when appetizers were served. He and Sirius were not to wander far, but they should not stick like toddlers to their parents.

Regs saw Sirius delicately filling a plate with several small savoury pastries, and joined him, giving him a gracious and courteous nod. Sirius's mouth twitched on one side. Regs had to hide a snort. Sirius was a terrible liar, and that meant a terrible actor. It was one of the reasons that Mother despaired of seeing him become the definitive Slytherin heir. But in the meantime, he was rather amusing.

Regs added only one or two delicacies to his plate, knowing how large the meal would be to follow. He wandered along the table carelessly, Sirius at his side, and despite his misgivings, thought that together they could take on the world. Then thought, with a pang, that perhaps they would not always be together.

Shaking off the serious mood that the occasion had instilled in him, he smiled politely at a couple of young girls in frilly dress robes. He couldn't tell if they were pretty or merely ordinary looking; he was not yet old enough to truly care. But later he would have to dance with them; he knew how it would go. Although he was only just seven years old, he knew the old dances, and that was enough for him to be required to dance.

They walked past the little witches – called so, even though they probably had yet to reveal their powers – and turned about the room, scanning for anything interesting that would occupy their attention. Despite being privileged enough to attend such an adult event, it was undeniably boring.

"Why do you call me little prince?" Regs asked his brother drawlingly, to make his face look long and slightly aloof. He had learnt such things from Mother in his etiquette lessons and knew Sirius would understand that he meant no offence. Sirius turned to him in poorly masked surprise.

"Have you never looked up the meaning of your name?" he replied.

"No," Regs said, brushing a crumb from his weighted sleeve. "I always thought I was just named for a star."

"Well, yes," Sirius said, returning to face throng of people making polite conversation. "But Regulus actually meant something, when they named the star. It is a perfect name for you, I must say."

"Why? What does it mean?" Regs couldn't hide his curiosity any more, though he kept his face emotionless.

"Firstly it is a star, for the family tradition, but it also means basilisk, which is a wonderfully Slytherin name." Sirius looked at him sideways, to gauge his reaction. Regs blinked slowly in contentment. He loved belonging to the mighty gathering of noble spirits that had come before him, by his very _nature_.

"But why 'little prince?'"

"Well, in Latin it also means little king," Sirius explained. "And – well, I guess that because you aren't really very big – you're littler than me…" he trailed off looking uncomfortable.

Regs thought he understood. Sirius took Regs' success with no large amount of tranquility seeing as he should be doing better and this was his fond way of putting Regs in his place. Because Regs was not the heir. He was a prince and not a king. All the same, he felt a tiny touch of the cold darkness that overcame him sometimes in his anger. Sirius had never mentioned it, but Regs was certain that his older brother never wanted to see him well and truly angry – ever. Regs didn't either. He had a feeling that it wouldn't be a pretty sight. He knew he had frightened Sirius on occasion with the chill danger of the shadow that overcame him at times, though it took a lot for him to reach that point. He had never yet lost control of his temper, like Sirius did frequently, for his was slow to build and, he suspected, fearsome to behold once properly roused.

But now, he saw through the cold to the warmth that Sirius held for him – the nickname was a fond one and Sirius' right. So he let a hint of a smile play about his lips and a single look at Sirius saw that his brother had seen both the irritation and the comfort that Regs had gained from the thought. And perhaps, Regs thought hopefully, there would be a little respect from his brother for it. Sometimes Regs was only the younger brother in Sirius' eyes, and despite all Regs' efforts to be his own person, to be the best he could be and succeed where others had not, Sirius was blind to them and saw only Regs' youth. It was the main fault he found in his elder sibling and their greatest point of argument. Sirius was just a little narrow-minded, Regs tried to comfort himself by thinking, but the knowledge of this made him wary of himself. He would be narrow-minded to believe that blindly of Sirius; perhaps he had good reason to doubt Regs' capabilities. This only made Regs try all the harder to impress.

"So what does your namemean?" he asked to fill the silence between them. Sirius shrugged in annoyance.

"Well, Sirius is the brightest star in the sky," he began. He wiped his fingers on the napkin carefully, not licking the sauce off his fingers as he would have done if only he and Regs were eating at home. "And it's part of the constellation Canis Major – so most people call it the Dog star."  
"So you have the values of a dog?" Regs asked, a tiny note of amusement curling through his voice. Sirius began to scowl before remembering himself and smoothing his expression.

"It's the brightest star in the sky," he repeated forcefully. "I imagine that loyalty is the greatest positive thing associated with dogs, although that seems rather like the quality of a die-hard Hufflepuff than a Slytherin. I don't know what they were thinking." He was referring, of course, to their parents.

"Well, maybe they had loyalty to the House of Black – Ancient and Noble as it is," he added loudly for the benefit of their neighbours. "Loyalty to Slytherin and to your duty in mind, when they named you." Regs felt that was all he could say in their current settings to perk Sirius up about the somewhat unfortunate origin of his name, for a Slytherin.

"Well, I've done that so well," Sirius muttered, still trying mightily to retain his composure.

"I think you've done well enough – for family loyalty," Regs said, looking straight at Sirius for the first time since they'd arrived. Sirius looked at him as well, right into his eyes. Surrounded by people, they were suddenly on an island of intimate solitude, in which they understood each other perfectly. They looked at each other for a long second until Sirius nodded at him and the moment was broken. As they moved off to circulate a little more and maybe find some acquaintances in the crowd, Regs thought that even though he'd meant what he'd said to Sirius, his brother was terribly easy to manipulate.

When they'd stuffed themselves during the feast on the long tables which were strategically not organized by rank or nobility, the adults rose gracefully to dance. The youngsters waited by the tables and began to eye each other off. The older children did not want to have to dance with the babies, nor did anyone want to be the only one without a partner, which would shame their family to some small degree, as the unwanted partner. Regs saw a fairly even number of boys and girls – perhaps one or two more girls, which was a lucky thing for all the boys, he and Sirius included. There would be a mad scramble when the first song finished – all the boys would reach for a girl as they should initiate the invitation, being gentlemen, however the girls would not be likely to sit back and wait for an invitation because there were more of them. It would be an awkward matching of people. Regs saw Sirius' eyes darting madly around for a suitable partner. He soon fastened onto the young Gamp girl, who was probably the prettiest young one there, with shining dark hair and fine features. Regs wished him luck in getting to her first, and looked around for himself. The Flint girl hadn't gotten any prettier with time and had an unfortunate tendency to wrinkle her nose at other girls, even though she was somewhat chubby herself. Regs would avoid her if possible. He wondered if perhaps she would be forced to dance with her brother, who was not any sort of handsome himself. Sirius was definitely one of the more good looking boys of the lot and shouldn't have any trouble. Regs had his 'presence' which, according to Mother, was his best quality in terms of social interaction. He was not the most handsome, nor the most charming, but he had a sense of refinement that was hard to come by naturally and had a sort of intenseness about him that served him well in capturing attention once it was on him. Perhaps the Burke girl, or the Wilkes girl – though she was a bit old. He studiously avoided his cousins. Bella was almost of age and hated to sit with the children, but she was making the most of it, by sitting carelessly and gazing into the distance as if bored. The boys would be falling over themselves to reach her first – he could see some of them drooling over her already. Narcissa was sitting primly and idly stroking a strand of her pale blonde hair. She had mentioned a boy at school that had caught her eye and had begun to court her gently. The Malfoy heir, if Regs remembered rightly. And sure enough, there he was, probably the newest prefect if the rumours were to be believed. Andromeda was unwell and wasn't in attendance, which was lucky for her, Regs supposed, being able to avoid the dance of proof of social worth, and the scoping out of reputations of the Noble families.

Well, really, there weren't many girls of his age in attendance. If a quarter of this was all of the fare that was going to be in Slytherin in his year, the dorms might be a bit empty. Sure, some of them may have been unwell or living overseas – some of them had second mansions in, say, France – or perhaps they had simply not been invited. There were more and more of the half-blood children of extremely limited nobility reaching Slytherin these days. It was because the pureblood families were so few these days and were mostly related. Only the true Slytherin-minded families kept marrying into the remaining purebloods – others that had tendencies towards the other houses didn't care about marrying half-bloods or worse, mudbloods.

It came down to either the Burke girl with the brown curls, the petite little Denuit girl, or the blue-eyed Mulciber girl, though she didn't look particularly interested in dancing with anyone at all.

Finally the orchestra for the first dance brought the adults to a swirling halt and small pleasantries were exchanged as a murmur of voices rose up in the interim. Regs could see his parents with haughty faces having a small conversation and ignoring everyone around them. The man, who had been announcing the entrances of the Noble families, requested the presence of the younger members on the floor to join the dancing. The mad scramble began, though they tried their best to appear as refined as possible. Sirius was out of his seat and taking the hand of the Gamp girl almost before the announcer had begun, bowing low over her and talking to her, no doubt asking her for the pleasure of the dance, as he looked up at her through his dark lashes. She blushed a little and agreed. Regs was pleased for his brother and continued his saunter towards the female tables. He wondered how Sirius had managed that so well – he'd never had much experience with girls before; neither of them had.

Regs had been right; the girls were desperate to not be left partnerless and were coming out of their seats before the boys had reached them, weaving between the boys that did not interest them at all, slowing as they reached clusters of the better-looking fare, until one of them offered his arm. Regs was surprised to find the Mulciber girl heading his way – perhaps she had noticed him looking at her briefly earlier – as well as a girl he didn't recognize, from the other side of the room. They reached him at about the same time and glared daggers at each other while he stood between them. He bowed low to both of them.

"Ladies, may I request that both of you save me a dance later in the evening when you are available – it would be my pleasure to dance with you both, but I'm afraid I must decline at the moment. I have promised my service to someone else for the first dance."

He left them looking somewhat bewildered and continued to the other side of the room, finishing his sentence internally to himself. 'Promised to myself, I mean.'

He reached the table where the Denuit girl sat looking torn between three other suitors, hoping he could pull this off. Otherwise those other girls would tear into him later. It was a risk he had taken, but he'd rather not have shown a preference of one over the other.

"Mademoiselle, may I have the pleasure of your company for this dance?" he asked, bowing deeply over her hand. He was elbowed out of the way by another boy.

"She's already been asked, if you hadn't noticed," snarled the boy with the pointy elbow. Regs sighed to himself; that was exactly where Mother had got him earlier.

"Yeah," one of the others added. "Give her a break, she's gonna dance with me." He bowed clumsily, blinking rapidly.

The girl looked swamped by requests and looked past them all to see if she had another choice, as though four was not enough. It was exactly what Regs had done to the other two girls. He stepped back and made as though to melt away a little. The girl glanced at him, and he hid his satisfaction inside. Take away one of her choices and she wants what she can't have. But he had misjudged her a little.

"What have you two to say for yourselves?" she said, looking pointedly at the third boy and Regs. Regs looked at the other boy and motioned for him to speak first.

"Well, Miss Denuit, I would be grateful for your company this evening, as I said earlier," the cultured voice began. Regs recognized it and looked at the boy again. Ah, of course. It had been a while since Regs had seen Bartemius Crouch junior, and he had changed – matured. This would be a difficult battle. "I would be most obliged if you would deign to dance with me and forever in your service." The boy was very smooth, Regs thought. He would be a Slytherin for certain. Regs stepped forwards again.

"Mademoiselle, the choice is yours," he said quietly. "I would not presume to make it for you, but if you were available at a later point, I would be most glad to accompany you for a dance then, if you so desired." He looked at her with his grey eyes intently for a moment, then bowed again and began to take his leave. He hadn't taken two steps when a small hand slipped into his and he smiled at his partner. "Regulus Black, at your service."

"Adelaide Denuit, Mr. Black," she replied. "Shall we dance?"

Adelaide Denuit was a delightful girl, glad to have an attentive and gentle partner, interested in his success in Potions and the tradition of his family to be named after stars. He learnt in turn that she had mostly grown up in France and had only moved to England two years ago. Her family was very wealthy and had a lot of influence internationally, which was why Mother had included her family in his education of the notable families in magical circles. He was disappointed to learn that she would be attending Beauxbatons in a couple of years. They spun around the floor with the numerous other couples, Regs expertly navigating her away from any dangerous clashes. Sirius winked at him as he passed, the pretty girl in his arms blushing sweetly. Regs danced with Adelaide several times, excusing himself to fetch a drink for her. When he returned, he begged her pardon, citing his promise to dance with others during the evening, and that he dared not keep her all to himself, but that he would return before too long to dance with her again, if she wished. She agreed readily and Regs went to dance with the two girls who had approached him earlier. As he led Adelaide back to the floor, he thought that perhaps these big social events weren't as tiresome as he'd first thought, once he had some decent company. And Sirius was upholding his own, seemingly at home amongst the swirling dresses and giggles of the opposite sex. Regs didn't really understand his brother's obsession with dancing with every pretty girl he happened across, but the evening certainly wasn't as unpleasant as he'd anticipated. Sirius seemed as light as he'd ever been, despite his dark beginning and the heavy fabric hanging from his shoulders. Perhaps there was hope for him yet.


	9. Chapter 8: The Vision of His Dream

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any associated characters, places and events.

**The Vision of His Dream**

"Damn it, Sirius, you almost hit me!" Regs yelled at his brother, swerving wildly. He corkscrewed tightly and spiraled up and over his older sibling, yanking a fistful of the idiot's hair as he whizzed across him, perpendicular to Sirius' path in order to make a return swipe impossible. Sirius' broomstick oscillated crazily as he jerked away, hissing.

"Oi! Play fair! I didn't even get you, moron!"

"What are you, a sniveling, high-horsed rule-stickler?" Regs jeered. "Afraid to shun the rulebook? It's the result that counts!"

Sirius growled and took off after Regs, who laughed and used his lighter weight against his would-be tormentor, retreating in true Slytherin style to the other end of the field. Sirius couldn't catch him and tried to cut him off on his return pass. He swore loudly as Regs skimmed past, missing him by a meter.

Regs was having the time of his life. He knew Sirius lived for these weekend sessions where they toed the line of freedom. For Regs it was good exercise but as much as he enjoyed them, he could survive without them. Sirius on the other hand, would rather kill himself than miss them. Which was why Regs had so much fun making them as frustrating as possible for his older brother. He knew many – probably all, in fact – of Sirius' weaknesses, and how to exploit them. A few years ago, maybe he wouldn't have done so – but this sort of thing was harmless and Regs simply couldn't resist – like a good little Slytherin, he was using these situations to train himself to exploit weaknesses. Mother would have been proud. It was a little cruel to do so at Sirius' expense perhaps, but he would certainly survive – and if it helped Regs to survive at some later point, then Sirius' surely wouldn't begrudge him a little practice. They both knew they'd never really hurt each other. Nothing would be worth that.

A whistling sound was all that alerted him to the sudden incoming bludger that Sirius had pelted at him. Regs didn't even have time to gasp. He flattened himself in a half sloth-roll maneuver and realized a millisecond later that it wasn't going to be enough. He let go of his broom, throwing himself off to the side of the narrow wood and heard the streaking whistle shoot inches from his head. Without stopping to think of the fact that he was fifty feet above the ground, he used his momentum to swing himself back over the other side of the broom from the single pivot point of the ankle he had still hooked over the handle near the bristles. He felt his feet fly off as he came back round on top and pointed the broom to the ground so he could fall easily back on. He came up smirking and raised an eyebrow at Sirius.

"Not fair," came the grumpy reply. "If you don't hit bludgers at me, I can't pull that sort of thing off."

"I'm not a beater, Sirius," Regs rejoined. They wove side by side, threading through the cool air.

"What's with the sneak cheating anyway?" Sirius tossed at him. "What about the honour of the nobility that Mother always goes on about?"

"She does go on a bit, doesn't she?" Regs mused. "Well, I'm simply getting results, brother dear. One must learn to be resourceful, know when to execute a tactical retreat and get the desired outcome. It's about being smart, as I'm sure you'll understand."

The barb didn't stick because Sirius _was_ smart, but he scowled anyway.

"Merlin, you sound just like her. Proper little Slytherin you'll turn out to be."

"I prefer the term renegade – if you're heading into 'cheating' territory."

"Well, you would, wouldn't you?"

"And you're just the perfect honour-bound rule-follower, aren't you?" Regs sneered a little. Turn the tables back on Sirius and he would always abandon his own line of attack.

"Well, I'm trying to do what Father wants and he's not easy to please," Sirius fired back. The smile Regs had waiting died on his lips. The look he shot at his brother was dark with understanding. Sirius almost glared in return; he hated pity. But this was more empathy than sympathy and Sirius knew it. They were silent. Words were often needless between them.

"Think we'll be ready for the school team when we get there, Uncle Alphard?" Sirius spoke suddenly. It took Regs a moment to realise he wasn't talking to Regs and that they had already reached the ground. He looked up for the reply.

"Well, I've no doubt that upon reaching school you'll both certainly qualify for reserves, if not the team itself. You aren't the only good flyers out there, after all." Uncle Alphard was bouncing on his feet like a youngster in Diagon Alley for the first time. His graying hair was trimmed stylishly and he beamed down at them, still sitting propped on their brooms.

"Well, only two years and I'll be there," Sirius said with determination.

"Three, my boy," Uncle Alphard said reprovingly. "First years don't fly on the team, remember?"

Sirius seemed to droop dejectedly.

"You can get there before your brother and clear the way for him as the seeker – then the team will be unstoppable!"

Regs and Sirius caught each others' eye and grinned together at the thought. There was something floating around them that they both ignored, a whisper that perhaps they'd play against, rather than together… but they'd sooner allow for the possibility that one of them may simply not make the team. Sirius was a Black - _and_ the heir – there's no way on earth he'd ever be anywhere but Slytherin. Obviously.

Dinner that night was as stiff and uncomfortable as usual. It had never been anything else. Sirius and Regs had to content themselves with silence and eating – speech was never encouraged at dinner without the extended family. They listened instead to Father's long-winded and passionate outpouring on the subject of the blood-purist movement that had been heating up in the last few months. Regs listened intently as Mother grunted her agreement here and there, injecting a sharp comment or anecdote wherever she felt the conversation was either too one-sided or lacked the wit she required for a stimulating discussion. It seemed that his parents were completely in favour of any strong action taken against the weak and feeble-minded ministry, which was only fit to be manipulated by the likes of those of the Noble houses, whose wealth could be invested into malleable puppet politicians – that was the only way anything worthwhile ever got done. As long as the blood-purists weren't interfering too much in the machinations of the Noble houses, the Black family was all for their cause. They had the same motives at heart, it seemed; blood purity, of course, and the rise of the worthy by the standards of Slytherin, and power to those with the ambition and desire to get it. They wanted to reshape the magical world away from the delicate muggle-pandering ways that current figures of authority were inclined to favour – Albus Dumbledore, for example. Regs' cousins had been disgusted with his particular brand of frivolous and idiosyncratic mannerisms, when they, who had studied the ancient and grand histories of the school and castle, knew how far it had fallen. Hogwarts, once a towering legacy of knowledge and power, the pinnacle of pride and education, now turned to ashes and dust in the hands of this man who replaced grandeur with cheap and gaudy displays. Never in the days of the founders had suits of armour been anything but dignified, spirits haunting its deepest corners with terrible solemnity and horror, not reciting rude rhymes or weeping in lavatories. Now there were floating candles instead of flaming brackets, dank dungeons where once there had been shadowy caverns of secrets and potential. And this man, with so much power – magical and political – was influencing their entire world away from its roots in might and magic to the exact, insipid frivolity that muggles expected when they considered magic. It was not just a scandal – it was like chipping away at jewels to covet mere glass. His flawed philosophy would lead them all into an age of loss – and bloodshed; glorious, ancient battle and combat that would soon be the only way to reclaim the lost kingdom of splendeur they once had known. If he did not revoke his claim to influence, then they would remove it, and its spokesperson too. Blood purity was the only avenue of true power – and he was obliterating it piece by piece.

Regs was so caught up in the exhilaration of righteousness and the painted picture of such a magnificent repercussion to those who opposed the true nature of magic that he didn't even look to see if Sirius was pulling faces like he normally did during boring meals. Mother noticed his enraptured expression and her lips twitched in the faint semblance of an indulgent smile. Regs looked at her with his eyes blazing, and told her with all his heart that that was what he would do, in the name of magic and all its innate power, to recover the lost art they once had known. He said nothing; never opened his mouth, for the dinner table was a place for adult conversations, with all the wit, maturity and self-assured opinions of those who have lived long enough to be allowed such things. His mother heard it anyway, and for one long unbroken moment when their silent conversation drowned out Father's verbose convictions on the superiority of anonymous contenders for power as long as they had pure lineage, Regs forgot Sirius and his expectations and saw his own life stretched ahead of him in a glorious rise of power and influence. He could join these people and change the fortunes of the worthy; he could lead the world into a new age of magic. Immediately the vision subsided and he was a seven year old child once more, untempered by the feuds of his ancestors. And Sirius was about as bored as he could be, slouching and liable to be reprimanded for negligence to his posture. Regs straightened his own back minutely but the change in Regs' direction to face Sirius was enough for his brother to notice and he quickly followed suit. Almost at once, Father sneered.

"If you can't keep your back proud at home, what hope do you have for public appearances, boy? Did you think I wouldn't notice? What will it take for you to obey us?" The low hiss cut through the air. Sirius dropped his head, hiding either sullenness or submission behind his dark hair.

"Look at me, boy, when I am speaking to you!" Sirius snapped his head straight and his eyes were dark grey, defiance flashing baldly. Regs shut down everything and watched the world out of cold emotionless eyes.

"I think," Mother interjected snidely, "that Sirius would benefit from a week in an upper body bind."

To his credit, Regs didn't even twitch on his brother's behalf, though inside, locked far away was a tangled mess of cringing despair. Sirius' chest was heaving as though he was about to protest, but then the fight went out of his eyes and he blanked his face.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied stiffly. Before he could even blink, Orion had flicked his wand at Sirius wordlessly and Sirius was straighter-backed than he'd ever been before. His spine was so rigid that he nearly toppled out of his chair. His chin was held high and his face was a traumatised mask of numb horror and pain. He tried to swivel back to face his plate but had to swing his whole body with his legs in order to do so. His eyes were overbright but he managed to lift his arm smoothly from the shoulder joint to continue eating. Regs did not pause in his own food consumption, but he noticed his brother's hand was shaking. This was Sirius' curse – always to be the bane of the parent. He was taking his curses – he could not send them back to Mother and Father. He was learning.

That night, Regs waited until Mother and Father were both in bed and shrugged on the black silk robe over his pajamas. He padded silently up the stairs and along the hall, knocking softly on his brother's door. He did not wait for an answer but slipped through the door into the gloom of Sirius' haven, lined with heavy tapestries and silver-framed portraits of Regs, or Uncle Alphard on the Quidditch pitch. A little moan whispered across the breadth of the room and Regs melted like a shadow to Sirius' side, placing a light hand on his shoulder. Sirius would have flinched, Regs knew, if he could have. In stead, he shuffled his legs and tried to roll over with his neck still held as high as a haughty pureblood examining a slug with a house elf waiting on hand with a bucket of flesh-eating slug repellant. Regs reached to his aid at once, propping a pillow behind Sirius' back on one side and another behind his head.

"Thanks," came the agonized reply, softly breathed. The pain, Regs guessed, would come from the tightness of muscles frozen into positions that were uncomfortable and not in the usual range of motion for Sirius. Regs would have stayed to do more, but there was little more he could do, and the chances of being caught by Mother would increase the longer he stayed.

"Sleep – as well as you can," he whispered and with a last light touch on his brother's shoulder he left as silently as he'd come, shutting the door behind him. He did not disapprove of Father's actions at all; it was not his place to say, after all; but he could not help but feel that he was condemning his brother to a personal hell by leaving him alone in a darkened room with a ramrod spine that would last a week.

If the week was hell for Sirius, he did not let it show. After the first day, he managed to maintain an expression as stiff as his torso, moved little and spoke less. Perhaps the worst was Sirius' obligation to his astronomy studies which required him to climb the stairs to the roof view to map stars and planets. Instead of bending over his telescope and parchment, he was forced to kneel and rise every time, tiny whimpers perhaps repressed behind tightly closed lips. Regs thought that if Sirius had to hold that expression any longer he would have premature lines permanently etched into his face. His movements were slow and his usual exuberant activities replaced by an almost decrepit shuffle, particularly on the stairs, where Regs wished he could whisk his brother up and away from the discomfort of seeing their parents turn a blind eye to Sirius' pain. Meals were tense and Sirius' shoulders became tenser every day. His lessons made his eyes haggard and shadows lurked there without relief. Regs learnt Charms and History always with a mind to Sirius' discomfort somewhere else in the house. The weekend passed without a Quidditch session, much to Sirius' misery. Regs pressed his lips tightly together when he considered the ramifications of that, but said nothing. He agreed with his parents by default. It was his birthright, his defense and his choice – in that order.

The end of the week came much too slowly for the younger inhabitants of the house. Regs had been wallowing in a sensation of helplessness all week and Sirius' silent agony was like a constant ache in his own chest. They sat at dinner once more, the tension like rock between them all. Regs did no more than blink and eat; he let nothing show on his face, so it fell naturally into haughty lines. The minutes ticked by like hours and Regs could see tiny droplets of sweat beading Sirius' face the longer they sat.

Finally, the house elves took away the last dish. Mother rose to leave and Father rose with her, and for one heart-stopping moment, Regs thought they were going to leave Sirius in the bind yet longer, but as they got to the door, Mother flicked her wand over her shoulder before they left the room without looking back.

At once Sirius gave a great shuddering gasp and slid bonelessly out of his seat. He crumpled to the floor, shaking as he panted and Regs leapt to assist him. Sirius tried to shake him off, but needed Regs support to get back into his chair. He sat there, quivering and gulping in huge lungfuls of air. Regs went cold thinking that perhaps the restriction on Sirius' chest meant he had not been able to breathe properly all week – that he had been slowly suffocating in his own home. He put it to the back of his mind, because he had to, because it was his duty, and gave his brother's shoulder a last squeeze. He left the room, knowing that Sirius needed the space. And counting on the fact that he would know if his brother needed him again.

All through that awful week, Regs had been thinking constantly of his brother's comfort and welfare, but he had not forgotten the topic of conversation at the dinner table on the night when it had all begun. He could not remove the memory of his fantasy, of the things he had imagined for himself. He did not care to take centre stage, but if his name, and his honour, could become a driving force for a magical-political revolution, then he would gladly take the credit. Gryffindors bravely led the charge; Slytherins conducted business from the sidelines. Regs could dream of taking school by storm, creating new magical concepts and purifying magic; of being offered positions of power and leadership and uniting the blood-purist factions with noble pureblood ideals to lead them all into a new golden age – he could dream it all, but the best thing about it all was that was possible. He was smart; Sirius had always told him so. Wizards had made great discoveries during school – like Albus Dumbledore for example. But it didn't have to be during school – the laws of Transfiguration had been amassed over time by experts and prodigies – he could do that, but he needed to make a name for himself at school so the world would open up after he graduated. He was from a noble family, so he had the pureblood background and didn't have to worry about running the family as well – he could just mesh their political allies with the forces of the gathered blood-purists. It would be incredible. He did not elucidate too expansively to himself but let the vision rest cosily in the back of his mind so that it could be cultivated by time and experience. It was no use trying to follow a predetermined path when he knew not what factors may influence its turns. He would let it ripen by itself until he could put everything into place. Then he would earn his place in the history books as one of the great wizards of his generation.

If anyone were to ask him what fueled his dream, he would say that it originated in the ideals of his parents and was nurtured buy his own obligation to his family, but secretly it went deeper than that. There was a small part that could be identified as appealing to authority – he wished to prove himself as worthy in his parents' eyes, and also to Sirius, who saw him as no more than a competitive younger brother. But that still wasn't it. He didn't really have to prove anything to them; he knew that Sirius wouldn't really care, and his parents would be satisfied as long as he did what they expected of him. He wasn't even trying to prove anything to himself. It was more like – he wanted to be known in the world – he wanted to be significant, renowned and memorable. He wanted to prove himself to the world. It was ambition, pure and simple, and made him worthy, he knew, of Slytherin. And that was really the ultimate goal. To be as known in name as Salazar himself.

But as weeks and eventually months went by, Regs nestling his vibrant dream deep inside his chest, the more he heard about the blood-purist movement – only from snippets he overheard from his parents and uncles talking – and the more it seemed like they already had a leader. That was fine – Regs had allowed for that possibility. He would simply coordinate on behalf of the nobility and direct them into new magical pathways – once he invented them of course. But in the meantime, it certainly seemed like the fellow who was campaigning was a proud sort – as expected, of course – and was probably not really the sort to be trifled with. Regs would have to bargain hard to get into that circle. When he was older, too, because there was nothing he could do while he sat in History lessons or learned about why Charms motions were so different from Transfiguration ones.

So he would wait and bide his time – let himself age a little, until he was of power and years enough to add worth to his actions. And day by day, that time grew closer.

1970s Voldemort first power with death eaters.

1961 Regs born


End file.
